Hour of Greatest Need
by snapdragonscribbler
Summary: When Voldemort is resurrected, Britain's hour of greatest need arrives, and the Once and Future King returns. What the prophecy doesn't mention is a host of knights, druids, advisors, and allies coming back, too. With the entire Round Table at Hogwarts for Harry's 5th year, it's only a matter of time before the school, and the Wizarding World, is thrown into chaos. A bit cracked.
1. Number 4 Privet Drive Wakes Up

It started back when Harry was once again at the Dursleys, waiting for his birthday to roll around so that he could get free of them for the rest of the summer before school started again.

Well, if Harry was going to be meticulous about the details and scrupulously honest, it started nearly fifteen hundred years ago, but at the time, he didn't know that. So for convenience's sake, when asked about it later in life, Harry always began the story near the start of the summer after his fourth year at Hogwarts, as it saved time and let him skip over quite a bit of history.

Fourth year was over, thank all that was magic, Harry's relatives were leaving him well enough alone (though his friends were leaving him a little too alone), and he had two months with the Dursleys to work through the piles of summer assignments given to him by teachers eager to get their students stressed about their upcoming OWLs year before it even began, and then he'd have a few weeks with the Weasleys and Hermione before heading off to school once more. Dudley was on his diet once again, although – much to Harry's relief – it was far less restrictive than it had been the summer before. On the bright side, Dudley was rarely seen around the house, as he was always "off for tea" with his mates during the day, and home only minutes before supper was served. Harry thought he'd seen his uncle roll his eyes once at Aunt Petunia's obliviously cheerful announcement of where her precious Duddykins was headed before hiding behind the financial section of the newspaper, but he realized after a few seconds that he had to be imagining things. Clearly, the dreams were getting to him.

It was bad enough that he was still dreaming of the graveyard, Cedric, the ritual, the duel, _Voldemort_, almost every night. They took that knot of complicated emotions lodged behind Harry's ribs – guilt, grief, fear, fury – and tied it tighter every night. But it didn't stop with that. No, of course not. Now he was having other dreams – dreams that felt just as real, just as much like true memories, that didn't make the tiniest bit of sense.

Dreams of wearing chain mail and riding a horse through the woods with a sword at his hip and a small company of men dressed just like him, hunting something dangerous. Dreams of sitting on a throne with a heavy gold crown on his head, listening to a petitioner ask for his kingdom's help in some matter. Dreams of a grand wedding full of pomp and ceremony as he tied his life to a beautiful woman with warm eyes and a sweet smile. Dreams of a profound sense of loss as another equally lovely woman drifted further and further away, until one day she looked upon him and called him her enemy. Dreams of being impaled upon a sword on a battlefield by a youth with cold, pale eyes and snow-white skin. Dreams of long, half-insulting conversations with a man he could never publically admit was his best friend and most trusted advisor. Dreams of dying in that man's arms, oddly secure in the knowledge that he'd see his friend once again.

The oddest part, as far as Harry was concerned, was that those dreams were occurring in an entirely different language – _and he could understand every word._ A quick browse through the early chapters of "A History of Magic" made it clear that he was dreaming about Britain during the sub-Roman era. It didn't explain why he was suddenly fluent in both Brythonic and Old English while he slept. Nor did it explain why everyone else seemed to be having sleep troubles, too.

Thanks to Harry's keen hearing and tendency to wake up at inconveniently early hours, he was more than aware that none of the Dursleys were sleeping soundly this summer. In the bedroom next door, Dudley regularly woke up around three and paced back and forth for several minutes before settling heavily in his desk chair to play computer games until breakfast. Down the hall, Harry could flip a coin to predict whether it would be Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia who'd get up and go downstairs in the pre-dawn hours, Uncle Vernon for a finger of scotch and a dry biography of Ambrosius Aurelianus, Aunt Petunia for strong, sweet tea and a very thick, but much more interesting book on the myths and legends of Camelot.

The lack of undisturbed sleep wasn't restricted to Number 4 Privet Drive, either. Harry's friends were being infuriatingly reticent about their summer and what they were doing, but Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had all mentioned in separate letters that they were having disturbing dreams that they couldn't make heads or tails of (and not to mention it to the others, please, as they'd never hear the end of it). Ron mentioned armor, a red cloak, a sword, and "funny languages". Ginny wrote of contradictory dreams, of being both a serving girl and wearing a crown, of a blacksmith father and a hall full of people crying "Long live the queen!" as she sat on a throne. Hermione's letters were unusually lacking in detail, though she wrote that she too was dreaming in both Brythonic and Old English, and that in her dreams she was performing magic far beyond anything she'd ever heard of while at Hogwarts. Then they all said something that worried Harry, as he'd been hoping he'd just been hallucinating: they were starting to recognize some friends and acquaintances as people other than who they actually were.

Oh, how he wished he'd been hallucinating. God help him, how he wished he'd been hallucinating. But no. He was, of course, in exactly the same boat as his friends. He sat down to breakfast every morning with Dudley, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia, and he had the strangest feeling that he was eating with three entirely different people. He clung to his denial as hard as he could; it could be a curse, or a potion, or a hex, or any number of things that was affecting them all so oddly. Then one morning, about three weeks into his summer holiday, his denial was shattered into dozens of pieces.

It seemed like a normal Saturday morning. Breakfast was brought out to the table by Aunt Petunia, who then served everyone portions she thought were appropriately sized. Harry's portions had grown over the past few weeks for some reason, but they were still significantly smaller than Dudley's and Uncle Vernon's. Uncle Vernon set the paper aside, looked at Harry's less than well-appointed plate, grunted disapprovingly, and reached across the table to heap another large spoonful of eggs and two breakfast sausages onto Harry's plate.

"You need to eat more, Arthur," he said gruffly, forking another piece of buttered toast onto Harry's plate as well before settling back and turning his attention to his own plate. "You're as scrawny as that servant of yours."

Time stopped. Everyone froze and just stared at each other, scarcely breathing.

_Arthur._

Yes. _Arthur._ It felt right. It felt like…him. As his acceptance of that settled about his shoulders like a cloak, around his brow like a crown, all his dreams fell into place and developed clarity unlike any he'd ever experienced before in his life. He was Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot. He was back.

No wonder Merlin had called him the Once and Future King.

He looked around the table at his family and this time he was almost one hundred percent certain he recognized the people he'd seen overlaying them like barely-there spectral images. But just to be certain… "_Fæder_?" he asked hesitantly in Old English.

Aunt Petunia inhaled sharply. Dudley gaped.

Uncle Vernon's jaw clenched and he closed his eyes for what felt like an interminable age. Then he exhaled slowly, opened them again to reveal a suspicious sheen across his eyes, and said, "Arthur. Oh, dear God."

"I'd hoped I was just going crazy," Harry admitted. He wasn't quite ready to start referring to himself as Arthur just yet. Accepting that he'd been reincarnated was a big enough step in his opinion.

"You aren't the only one, Wart," Dudley muttered.

"I think it was a collective wish," Harry said. He raised his eyebrow at Dudley and asked, "Kay?"

Dudley buried his face in his hands and nodded, groaning.

"We had an agreement that you'd never call me that again," Harry said, giving into the temptation to flick a blueberry at his cousin's forehead.

"That was well over a thousand years ago. Agreement's expired," Dudley said firmly, flicking a blueberry back.

Harry caught it deftly and looked to his aunt. Unaccountably, her ears turned red and she looked away with an expression of extreme mortification on her face.

"I'd really rather not say," she said, determinedly avoiding any eye contact. Her hand crept up to rub the shell of one of her tomato-red ears and Harry, Dudley, and Uncle Vernon all choked at the familiar gesture.

"_Ector_?" Uncle Vernon exclaimed in a strangled voice as Dudley yelped, "_Dad_?"

"And I thought this family couldn't possibly get any weirder," Harry told his eggs gloomily, suddenly quite put off his breakfast.

"My dad's your dad and my mum's _my_ dad," Dudley said, matching his gloom. "I don't think it _can_ get weirder."

"Maybe not weirder, but it could've been worse," Harry offered. "Aunt Petunia could've come back as Morgana."

Uncle Vernon turned a delicate shade of green. "Incest is not a proper mealtime conversation topic, Harry."

"Would you prefer it if we talked about magical reincarnation and the druids' prophecy of the Once and Future King returning in Britain's hour of greatest need?" Harry asked innocently. To his great surprise, no one flinched at the dreaded 'm' word.

Rather, Uncle Vernon looked at Harry with a growing wonder in his eyes and said, "My nephew, my _son_, is the Arthur of legend. Of all the unbelievable things I've seen and heard in this life and the last…my God, the Once and Future King is Harry Potter."

"Now, I'm just checking, but you don't have any desperate or deep seated desire to burn me at the stake, do you?" Harry asked. "Because you were…. Well. You were rabidly anti-magic the last time around, to be blunt. And you're not all that keen on it now, either. But I'm magic this time, and Guinevere came back, and she's magic, and one of my knights came back, and _he's_ magic, and Morgana came back as well, and she's still magic, but she's loads better, as far as I can tell, and you can't just make someone's magic go away, and –"

"Ar-Harry," Aunt Petunia interrupted. "If this is Britain's greatest hour of need, and you were brought back as a – a wizard, then clearly, you're meant to use magic to defend our nation from whatever threat it's facing. Right, V-Vernon?"

"Right," Uncle Vernon said with a strong note of conviction in his voice that almost completely disguised his unease. "But that doesn't mean you should be neglecting your physical training. We need to get you back into fighting form. You're just a shadow of your former self! You'll be going to the gym with Dudley for the remainder of your time with us – and don't think you'll be getting away with eating like a bird anymore. The more you eat, the more you grow; the more you eat, the more you can exercise; and the more you eat, the stronger you'll become."

Harry contemplated a snarky reply, but thought better of it and simply nodded and dug into his cooling breakfast. He was used to Uncle Vernon's revisionist history, and now that the memories of his past life were so clear and orderly, he realized he was quite used to Uther's revisionist history as well. 'Eat like a bird', his arse. He ate what was put on his plate, and he polished off every last crumb. He'd do the same if he were served bigger meals.

When breakfast was finally over and Harry, at his relatives' urging, was heading upstairs to change into exercise clothes so he could spend a couple hours at the local gym with Dudley, Uncle Vernon stopped him with a big hand on his arm and asked quietly, "Morgana…does your friend know who she is?"

"I don't know," Harry said truthfully. "I can send her a message with Hedwig if you're willing to wait a few extra minutes for me. There might be a reply by the time we return."

Uncle Vernon nodded shortly, letting go of Harry. He hesitated, then clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Harry – Arthur – the dead are obsessive and single-minded. What I told you when we last spoke wasn't true at all. I am proud, damn proud, of what you did with Camelot. Even if you did marry a serving girl and allow commoners to become knights."

Harry flashed his uncle (his father? No, his uncle) a grin and ran up the stairs to throw on gym shorts and an older, smaller shirt before tying his oversized trainers on securely and scrambling for a piece of parchment and his favorite self-inking quill. Right, best to address the whole issue to Hermione, but he ought to throw something in there for Ron and Ginny (Ginny! His Gwen!) as well. How to go about it, though?

Ah! He had it.

_Sweostor, Cwén, and Cniht, _(He wrote carefully, knowing that the recipient of his short letter would understand the language of the Saxon invaders perfectly)

_Have you figured out what the dreams mean? I have. You wouldn't be able to guess in a million years who my fellow disturbed sleepers at 4 Privet Drive turned out to be._

_I'll see you soon. Take care of each other._

_Harry._

He ended it with a little doodle of a dragon holding an enormous fountain pen and rolled up the parchment tightly, tying it to Hedwig's leg. "Take this to Hermione, girl," he said softly. "Thanks."

She hooted at him affectionately and shot out the window, soaring high into the sky in the direction of London, and Harry turned away and headed back downstairs. He had a lot of work, painful, physical work, ahead of him before he could look in the mirror and even begin to see a hint of the Arthur Pendragon of old reflected back.

_At least Merlin can't call me fat this time around,_ Harry thought with a mental shrug. He laughed under his breath and ran down the stairs to join his waiting uncle and cousin, looking forward to the long, grueling workout that awaited him.

When he dragged himself back up the stairs a few hours later, limp as an overcooked noodle and aching all over, Hedwig greeted him with a friendly clack of her beak and held out her leg. Harry untied the response from his friends with shaky fingers and slumped over his desk, smoothing it flat and reading it with an anticipation he didn't know he still had the energy for.

_Broðor, Ceorl, Cyning,_

_We have woken up. Ginny would like me to tell you that you are about 1500 years late in coming home and kissing her. Ron would like to convey his relief that he remains Ginny's brother in this life just as he was in the last. As for me, I'm – I'm better. Conflicted, but better. I don't know how to start to apologize. But then, I'm not certain how to forgive myself, either. And this is just where you and Ginny and our conspicuously absent friend are concerned. As a matter of fact, I __am __aware of who you're living with. (Apparently the magic of the Old Religion is too, well, __old__ to fall under the purview of the Ministry of Magic's Trace, so I did a bit of scrying while you were off at the gym and listened in on some of the conversations. I apologize for the invasion of privacy, but you know me; I've never been able to leave well enough alone.) Honestly, Harry, I have no idea how to handle your uncle. How can I apologize when there's so much that __he__ has to apologize for himself, and probably never will? How can I forgive him for what he did to my kind – our kind, now – in that lifetime, when thinking of what he's done to you in this one makes the blood boil in my veins?_

_On a different, but semi-related topic, when I look back now from a position of logic and sanity, I can see where I went astray. You recall the sleeping spell that the castle fell under, and the Knights of Medhir, don't you? Well, unbeknownst to me, the spell animating them was anchored to me, and the only way to destroy it was to kill me. I've no idea how our mutual friend discovered this, but he did, and he did what he needed to in order to break the spell and ensure your victory. Do not blame him for this; I expect he blames himself enough for any ten of us combined. But my theory, based on how, after that, I so quickly slid into embracing morality-free manipulation, then outright villainy and finally insanity, I believe firmly that when my sister brought me back from Annwn, she brought me back…wrong. It is a true relief to be put to rights once more._

_We all miss you terribly, and we can't wait to see you again. Soon, broðor. Soon._

_With love,_

_Hermione (and Ginny and Ron)_

Beneath their signatures were three tiny sketches, one of the 'pen-dragon' Harry had created sitting on the pen and reading an enormous spellbook, one of a delicate tiara encircling a single forget-me-not, and finally, one of a rather excellently rendered broadsword leaning against a blacksmith's anvil.

So, his returned knight was Elyan. Ginny had to be thrilled about that. But it made him wonder – how many more of them had, as Hermione put it, "woken up"? And who were they?

And for that matter, where the hell was Merlin?

** ** ** Hour of Greatest Need ** ** **

Late on August 3rd, a party of two appeared out of nowhere on a quiet neighborhood street in London. Knowing that they were being watched from whichever house they would soon enter, the younger of the two pulled away casually and asked offhandedly, as if he had no more than a passing interest in the answer, "So how many of us are there, that you know of for sure?"

In just as casual a manner, Remus Lupin, once known as Geoffrey of Monmouth, court genealogist and librarian of Camelot, said, "Besides the two of us? You're aware of Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, and the Dursleys." He paused for Harry's nod and continued. "There's also Sirius and Severus. Sirius's identity I know. Poor man's been having an identity crisis ever since he, ah, 'woke up'. Severus I'm unsure of. He absolutely refuses to hear anything about Camelot. If you bring it up he'll walk away, and if you follow, he'll threaten to hex you."

"Hmm." Harry stroked his jaw with his thumb thoughtfully and wished, not for the first time, that he didn't look so much like he could pass as Merlin's younger brother in this life. Still, the past month and a half hadn't been awful. He'd hit a growth spurt near the end of the school year that had seen him shoot up five inches by the time he woke up, and his uncle and cousin's 'stuff him full of protein, complex carbohydrates, and vitamins, then throw him to the mercy of the weight machines and the treadmills' plan had been, strangely, eagerly accepted by his magic, bringing on an extra couple inches of height and a broadening of his shoulders that everyone back at Privet Drive looked upon with approval.

"Harry?"

"I'll talk to him," Harry said decisively. At Lupin's dubious look, he added, "Come on, Remus. What's the point of being the much-heralded Once and Future King if I can't talk one grumpy former subject of Camelot into giving up his identity to his former liege lord?"

"You've really embraced this double identity business, haven't you?" Lupin said dryly.

"Of course," Harry said. "For the love of magic, can you imagine what it would have been like if 'Britain's hour of need' came about and nobody but me returned? Horrible! Obviously, I'd do what needed to be done, but finding myself returned to life in a world without Gw-my wife, my sister, my knights – it would be so incredibly lonely. Luckily, that's not what happened. I woke up, Ginny woke up, my sister woke up, my _father_ woke up – bit of a mixed bag at first, that one, but things are much improved now – three knights woke up, one of my court advisors woke up…." He trailed off and gave Lupin a smile that felt almost too big for his face. "I'm willing to bet that the entire Round Table, no, even more people than that, will be awake and known to us by the time school starts again."

"I, for one, won't bet against it," Lupin said. "Shall we go inside?"

"Wait," Harry said, throwing out a hand to stop him. "You said you know who Sirius is. You specifically mentioned it."

Lupin gave him a mischievous look. "And?"

"And then you didn't say who," Harry said. He crossed his arms and raised an expectant eyebrow, pleased to find that once again, thanks to the miracle of teenage growth spurts, he was able to look _down_ at people rather than _up_ when waiting for answers.

Lupin laughed. "Oh, that look on your face takes me back," he said. "You may look like a Potter, but you're still every inch a Pendragon where it counts."

Harry grinned at him in delight. "Thank you!" he said. "I'm glad I haven't lost my touch. Now stop waffling and tell me who Sirius is."

"You won't believe me," Lupin warned him.

"Life is already unbelievable," Harry said flippantly. "Go on. Tell me. _Please_."

"If you insist," Lupin said. He cleared his throat and said, laughter lurking behind every word, "He's your mother."

Harry sat down hard on his school trunk. "Oh, my God." He let that percolate for a few seconds before looking up at Lupin, beaming widely, and bouncing to his feet. "Fantastic! Let's go see him!"

"That was fast," Lupin commented, grabbing Harry's trunk and following behind him. "Here. Read this."

Harry looked down at the scrap of paper that had been thrust into his hands. "Well, I've spent the last month and a half getting past the fact that my father, who's my uncle, is married to Sir Ector of the Forest Savage, who's also my aunt, and their biological son in this life is Kay. Compared to that, Sirius being my reincarnated mother is a breeze." He squinted at the spidery script that crossed the little paper and read under his breath, "The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place." He looked back up. "What does that…."

Across the street, something seemed to be growing between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen, something growing _upward_ and _outward_, pushing the two houses apart with a loud grinding noise of brick and mortar scraping against brick and mortar. Finally, with one last lurch and a final, ominous crunch, a dark and imposing townhouse loomed over them.

"Welcome to headquarters," Lupin said cheerfully, dragging Harry's trunk behind him as he set off for the house. "Come on."

"Creepy," Harry commented as he followed along in Lupin's wake, across the street and up the steps to the door. He surreptitiously pulled his wand out of his jacket sleeve and held it at the ready – just in case. Even the exterior of this house was giving him a case of the creeping horrors.

Lupin drew his wand as well, tapping it against the door silently. The door opened and swung inward just as silently, and Lupin waved Harry forward into the lit hall.

He hardly had enough time for a single, disturbed observation – _Was that a troll's leg?_ – when he heard a soft voice say, "Hello, Harry," and he looked up from the hideous umbrella stand to see three people waiting at the other end of the entry hall looking back at him. And for the life of him, he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Ron, standing strong and proud and _even taller than him, damn it_, his eyes shining and his hand resting at his hip where his sword once hung so long ago. Hermione, still and watchful, seeming torn between running to him and shrinking into Ginny, whose arm she was holding fast to as she plucked at her sleeve absently. And Ginny, practically vibrating in place and smiling at him so beautifully with damp eyes and glowing cheeks.

"If –" Harry broke off, his mouth dry, and tried again. "If you lot don't get over here right now and greet your king properly, I'm going to recruit Remus and Sirius into helping me prank you three to hell and back for the rest of the summer."

A heartbeat later Ginny collided with him, throwing her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist reflexively. "Next time you leave a battlefield to die at the shores of a mystical lake and cement your place in British legends forever," she told him breathlessly, "Remember to kiss your wife goodbye." And with that, she demonstrated exactly the sort of kiss she meant.

Without breaking the kiss, he picked her up and whirled her around until she couldn't help laughing giddily. "I'll remember that," he said, joy bubbling up in his chest. "Lots of kisses, just like that. But believe me, Ginny, I have absolutely no intention of getting run through with a sword on the fields of Camlann again, so I suppose you'll just have to settle for those kisses being regular kisses and not goodbye kisses."

Ginny slipped from his arms and back to her feet and molded herself to his left side, smiling up at him as he tucked her more firmly under his arm. "You have yourself a deal, my love."

Ron was the next to welcome him, striding over and offering his hand. They gripped forearms in a warrior's greeting, grinning at each other. "You've grown a bit," Ron observed. "You're, what, an even six feet now? They finally feeding you?"

"Excellent deductive reasoning. Yeah, they were heaping my plate and tossing me in the gym for hours every day. I'm still not taller than you, though, curse your Weasley genes," Harry sighed. "And you look a bit different."

"It's the freckles, isn't it?" Ron said, holding up his arm for inspection and looking it over mournfully. "Of course it's the freckles. I never freckled back in Camelot."

"Yes, Ron," Harry agreed, hiding his laugh behind his fist. "It's definitely your freckles."

Ron laughed and smacked him companionably on the back. "It's good to have you back."

When he pulled back a bit, falling in to Harry's right and just a half-step behind, Harry looked to the one person left who had yet to come over, let alone say anything. "Hermione?"

She fidgeted with the hem of her blouse, looking at her feet and then back up at him, conflict written all over her face. Apparently, despite bi-weekly owl post exchanges over the past month and a half, being presented with a flesh and blood Harry was enough to bring back all the troubles and insecurities they'd worked their way through together in their letters. "Harry…."

"_Sweostor_," Harry said gently, spreading his right arm wide and beckoning her with his fingers. "Come give your annoying, foolhardy, headstrong, stubborn prat of a brother a hug."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she gave a hiccoughing laugh and stumbled across the space separating them to fall into his chest, flinging one arm around Harry and the other around Ginny as she buried her face in the collar of his shirt and mumbled brokenly, "_Broðor_…Arthur…Harry…I thought I'd never…so sorry…love you so much…."

He hugged her back with his free arm, and Ginny held her tight with one of her arms as well. "Shh," Harry murmured. "We love you, too. All is well."

And though he knew that things were just beginning, while he was there, holding his long lost wife and sister while one of his most trusted knights stood beside him and an old court advisor watched from the doorway with a quietly approving smile, he couldn't help but feel that his words were true. For the moment, all was indeed well.

* * *

_After watching the finale of Merlin (yes, this is a crossover/fusion story), I was mauled by a rabid plot bunny and had to get out this chapter. It's odd, it's got distinctly cracky elements to it, and I can guarantee that continuing it will only bring more oddness. But I guarantee only the highest quality of oddness for you, readers! Thanks for venturing in, and please let me know what you think before you go!_


	2. The Unofficial Belated Birthday Party

Harry had half-expected to be descended upon by the rest of the occupants of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place as soon as even one person heard him speaking with his friends in the entrance hall, but he was pleasantly surprised when all that happened was that Ron, Hermione, and Ginny – Ginny and Hermione still firmly holding onto him – hurried him up two flights of stairs, down a long, skinny hall, and into a dark, high-ceilinged bedroom with two narrow twin beds and an ornately carved mahogany wardrobe that had clearly seen better days. Lupin followed in their footsteps, levitating Harry's trunk as they rushed along. It was only when they closed the door behind them firmly and he and Hermione lit the lamps with dual murmured spells, one in Latin and one in Old English, that they all relaxed. Harry blinked hard, his eyes stinging at the sudden change from dim and shadowed to bright and illuminated, and he almost missed the sight of a tall, thin man unfolding himself from the edge of one of the beds and getting to his feet.

"Welcome, Harry," Sirius said, approaching on soft feet. "The house is something of a waking nightmare, I know, but it's mine, and on the bright side, I actually have a place for you to live with me now – when you can, of course, and if you still want to, that is. I – you look great, much better than when I last saw you. It's good to see you in clothes that actually fit…."

"You look good, too," Harry said, and he was intensely relieved that this was true and not just a polite response. Sirius had dark smudges beneath his eyes, but he was far less gaunt than he'd been last year, let alone when Harry had met him for the first time. His hair was neatly trimmed to shoulder length, not a knot or tangle to be seen, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. "And I do. Want to live with you, that is. Of course I do. That's not changed a bit."

"Good," Sirius said. His smile was almost brighter than the glow of the lamps. "Good."

"As for the clothes, I had a row with Uncle Vernon about a week after we woke up. Well, I guess it was really with him and Aunt Pet – er, Sir Ector, but it was mostly with Uncle Vernon. About, well, everything, really. End result was a trip into London to get Muggle clothes that properly fit, and to place an order for delivery of new furniture for my room," Harry said. "Oh, and Uncle Vernon apologized."

"Uther apologized?" Hermione asked, wide-eyed. "_Uther_?"

"The one and only," Harry said. "Not so much for the last life, since there wasn't much he did to me then, but he did apologize rather eloquently for this one."

"Before you were born, I sometimes suspected that Uther did things to drive me mad on purpose just so I'd initiate a good old-fashioned screaming row with him," Sirius said fondly. "It would inevitably devolve into us hurling the stupidest insults you could possibly imagine at each other until we were both in stitches. He seemed to get quite a kick out of it."

"_Uther_?" Hermione asked again.

"Right," Harry whispered. "I can't believe I almost forgot so quickly."

The half of him that was Arthur Pendragon looked at Sirius with desperation and a terrible, aching hunger, and now that he was looking for it, he could see the side of his godfather that was Queen Igraine staring back with such longing and affection it made his breath catch in his throat.

"You know," Harry said croakily, "This is really odd. There's a very little bit of my Harry Potter self that's still boggling at this whole reincarnation business. There's a somewhat bigger bit of my Arthur self that wants to joke with your Padfoot self about how you're handling your new gender identity crisis. There's a rather large part of my Harry self that thinks a hug from my godfather would be fantastic, and then there's my King Arthur self that's listening to _its_ inner King Uther voice that says I'm practically a man now, and hugs should be reserved for my wife, female relatives, and those I count as close companions, but only when the situation merits it, like when we've narrowly escaped death or the like."

"For the record, I'm handling it just fine. My present self won the internal battle of the sexes without much of a fight being put up by my past self. And which part of you is winning this argument you're having with yourself?" Sirius asked, smiling slightly.

"The part that says 'sod it, I'm the king and I can hug whoever I want, including my godfather-shaped mother'," Harry said. He matched Sirius's broad grin and embraced him tightly, his arms hard around him and his chin tucked firmly over his shoulder.

Sirius held him back with equal strength. "By all that is sacred and magic, I've missed you," he whispered fiercely. He smoothed down Harry's hair in slow, trembling strokes over the back of his head. "Life has been unfair to us. I didn't get to so much as hold you in the last one, and in this one I was locked away while you were still young, when you needed me most."

"But we have the present," Harry said, and he pulled away reluctantly. "We can't let the past get in the way of the here and now. That sort of thinking has a way of making certain that the future is an unpleasant one."

"That sounded almost wise," Hermione said, and though her eyes were once again wide there was a faintly devilish, mocking light to them that warmed Harry all the way through. He hadn't seen that look on his sister's face in a very long time, and after her tears downstairs it was a welcome sight. "Did you actually mature after I left Camelot, or did you read that in a book somewhere and decide to rip off the author?"

"I matured," Harry said, affronted. "I was an excellent king, thank you. And no, I didn't read that anywhere. It's just common sense." He held up his hand to stop Hermione's teasing retort in its tracks. "Yes, I know, the next thing you're going to say is that I don't possess any such thing. I'm willing to concede that in _that_ life it might have been true about a few things. However, Gwen was and Ginny is chock-full of common sense, and when Merlin wasn't busy pretending to be a complete idiot, he had more than a few gems of wisdom to pass along. Though really, it's just something I noticed in this life when I thought about our father in that one. He did exactly that, and it brought him nothing but misery."

"When we find Merlin, I'm telling him you said he isn't an idiot," Ginny said immediately. Ron and Hermione laughed, and then laughed harder at Harry's instant reply.

"What? No! Nononono, you can't do that. It goes against the nature of our relationship."

"What nature?" Ron asked. "The two of you have the most bizarre friendship I've ever seen. Three quarters of the time it's all insults, petty pranks and pettier retaliation, and then the remaining quarter the two of you are thick as thieves, with you taking his advice as if he sat at your right hand at the Round Table as he did the first time, before you became king, and you trusting him, a servant without armor and only a cheap sword, to guard your back in a fight."

"Don't let them fool you," Ginny said. "Arthur would have found himself a new manservant if Merlin's insults bothered him. It's fun for them, truly. It has been since the day they met."

"Do your impression of them again, Ginny, please," Hermione asked with a sly smile. "You were so good at it the first time around."

"You did impressions of us for Morgana?" Harry asked, feeling strangely betrayed. Ginny laughed up at him.

"Only occasionally. And you really deserved this one." She looked about the room, making eye contact with everyone, and said, "This is just a short exchange from Arthur and Merlin's second ever encounter. Earlier, Merlin stopped Arthur from bullying his previous manservant, and, after being goaded into taking a swing at this complete stranger, was sent to the dungeons upon the discovery that the aforementioned bullying git was, as luck would have it, King Uther's son."

"Yes, yes, I was Dudley," Harry muttered. "I was Draco Malfoy. Can we skip the character assassination and get to the part where you just make fun of me?"

"Whatever you say, husband mine," Ginny said. "Anyway, Merlin got sent to the stocks, which is where I met him and discovered that he was a perfectly lovely person. When he got out, after going back to the palace to clean up and change, he came across Arthur again down in the city. Now, Merlin seemed rather determined to ignore him, but Arthur managed to get under his skin, and worse, talked him into a duel with _maces_ of all things."

"Here's where the impression starts," Hermione told Harry sweetly.

Ginny very daintily cleared her throat with a delicate cough. Then she affected an exaggeratedly macho stance and said arrogantly, "I warn you, I've been trained to kill since birth." She switched to a milder, less confrontational posture and said, voice full of false wonder and deep sarcasm, "Wow…and how long have you been training to be a prat?" Back to her 'Arthur' stance, and she shook her head in disbelief and said, "You can't address me like that." 'Merlin' once more, with a duck of the head and a sheepish grin. "Sorry. H-how long have you been training to be a prat, _my lord_?"

Hermione, Ron, Sirius, and Lupin all clapped as she took a bow, blowing kisses to her audience.

"Very funny," Harry said, doing his best to sound sour. He couldn't quite hide the smile her reenactment brought to his face, though. Their early interactions had certainly been memorable. A thought occurred to him, and he had to voice it. "Wasn't a sorcerer executed that week? It was the reason for the feasts, wasn't it?"

"That was the first day Merlin set foot in Camelot," Hermione said. "I saw him from the window as I was watching. It stuck with me – he was the only one in the courtyard who looked as completely horrified and sickened as I felt."

"Poor boy," Lupin said. "That's some welcome. He must have been terrified."

"Ten years in Camelot and no one knew but Gaius," Arthur said. "I'm sure he was terrified at times, but I'm even more certain he was incredibly lonely."

"We'll find him," Ron said bracingly. "I promise."

"And we'll make certain that for as long as he has us, he'll never be lonely again," Ginny added, nodding.

"Yes," Sirius said. "Now, come sit. It's time for your unofficial belated birthday party."

"My unofficial belated birthday party?" Harry parroted as he took a seat on the bed Lupin had set his school trunk near.

"Your official belated birthday party is tomorrow and involves the rest of the Weasleys, plus gifts from us that don't look like we've suddenly all become suspiciously obsessed with Arthurian legends to the point of emulating the characters," Hermione said.

"Fair point," Harry acknowledged. "Though I did have a question. It's all well and good to write the more secret bits of our correspondence in Old English, but why aren't we writing in Brythonic? It's been a while, but you may recall that it's our native tongue. Ginny, Ron, the rest of my knights, and I only learned Old English because of the Saxon threat the last few years of my reign, you know it because it's the language of the Old Religion, and Remus and Sirius –"

"We took Ancient Runes at Hogwarts when we were students," Lupin said. "Well, we're certainly short-sighted, aren't we? Excellent idea, Harry."

"Yes, that's quite brilliant, actually," Hermione said. She sat down beside Harry and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "What's your real reason for switching languages on us?"

"Declensions are a right pain," Harry said promptly. "I have four languages rattling around in my head, three of them involve declensions, and I'd like to stick to the one of those three that I know well enough to not have to think twice before putting quill to parchment. Though I will say that all of this has given me a new and unusual perspective on modern English. It's a magpie, don't you think? It takes all the shiny bits from dozens of other languages and uses them to feather its nest."

"We left you at the Dursleys a bit too long, I think," Ron said, giving him a strange look.

"You'll get no argument from me," Harry said. "You know the saying about too many cooks in the kitchen spoiling the soup? Well, too many kings…. I may be the prophesied Once and Future King, but Uther Pendragon is the indisputable ruler of Number Four Privet Drive. The only reason we didn't bump heads more than just the once is because I spent so much time at the gym with Dudley instead of being back at the house where we would have inevitably had another argument. The past month and a half has been entirely 'exercise, eat, sleep, think'."

"And get attacked by dementors," Hermione said, suddenly quite serious. "Harry, those monsters are under Ministry control. It's no accident that they were in your neighborhood. Someone sent them after you on purpose, most likely to shut you up about Voldemort."

"Believe me, I'm well aware of that," Harry said.

"How did you run them off without getting another warning from the Ministry?" Sirius asked. "I would think that given the current attitude they have toward you, they would have hauled you in for a disciplinary hearing at the least for using magic in front of a muggle while out of school."

"Sure, if I'd used normal magic," Harry said. "But Hermione pointed out that the magic of the Old Religion is too _old_ for the Ministry's trace to detect. So I summoned my patronus in Old English." He stopped and grinned. "A word to the wise: when you're doing an already powerful spell, and you're translating it into Old English from Latin, don't use your wand unless you're prepared for big, flashy results."

"So show us without a wand," Ron said eagerly. "Come on."

Harry chuckled and held out his hand. When everyone's eyes were on him, he focused on the memory of his very recent reunion with his sister, his queen, and one of his best knights and whispered, "_Gódweard, cume._" There was a brilliant flash of light, and a stag with a full rack of antlers bounded out of the palm of his hand and down to the floor where he stood with his velvety-soft muzzle at the same height at Ron's chin. A blue-white orb the size of a quaffle inscribed lazy circles at his side.

"Good guardian, come?" Hermione translated. "It's not a direct translation – it should properly be 'I require you, guardian,' but apparently it works."

"I think it's the intent that matters most," Harry said. "That and the memory. When I did it with a wand back in Little Whinging, Prongs was half again as big as he is now, and there were a half dozen of those mage-lights circling him."

The stag looked around the room calmly, and when he discovered no threats, he ambled over to Harry, gave him a friendly nudge on the side of his head with his nose, and disappeared.

"He's solid!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Chalk it up to the mysteries and miracles of the Old ways," Harry said. "There wasn't anything left of those dementors after he was through with them. If there are any others like us at Hogwarts, we're going to have to teach them to translate spells from Latin to Old English."

"Good idea," Hermione said, "And perfect segue from this to my birthday gift for you." She jumped up from the bed, opened the wardrobe, pulled out a carefully wrapped package in scarlet and gold striped paper, and sat back down beside him, plunking it down in his lap. "Happy birthday, _broðor_. Open it."

Harry looked down at the heavy rectangular package and bit back a joke about Hermione, books, and predictability. Instead, he tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a handsome leather-bound journal with gilt edged pages and a dozen deep scarlet ribbons all separating the thick book into neatly divided sections. He flipped it open to the first bookmark and, after squinting at the Anglo-Saxon runes for a moment, read aloud with glee, "Magic of the Old Religion! Thanks, Hermione!"

She reached over and flipped to the next bookmark. "Here's the charms section," she said. "The next one is hexes, jinxes, and curses, then transfiguration, then enchantments, then conjurations, potions, runic magic, and so on and so forth. I left room in each section for another hundred additions or thereabouts, so that you can keep adding spells as we get older and continue our education at Hogwarts." She rummaged around in her pocket and came up with a biro. "Here. Add the Patronus charm."

Harry rifled through the charms section to the first empty page and very neatly wrote out in Fuþorc, "'_Gódweard, cume': to summon your guardian spirit for protection against dementors."_

"This is brilliant," Harry said sincerely, handing back the pen and closing his new spellbook. "Thank you. I can see how much work you put into it. I'm impressed."

Hermione blushed almost as scarlet at the ribbon bookmarks, and Ron patted her shoulder and said rather loudly, "My turn." Harry didn't miss the grateful look that Hermione shot him, nor the approving one that Ginny gave him when he slung his arm around his sister's shoulders and pulled her in for a sideways hug.

Ron rummaged through the bottom of the wardrobe and after a muffled but triumphant "Aha!" he returned to the little circle around Harry and held out a small, flat white box tied shut with red and gold ribbons. "Happy birthday," he said, shoving it into Harry's hands. "Many happy returns and all that."

"Yes, here's to living past thirty this time," Harry said as he undid the bow and lifted the lid off the box. "I'm all in favor of – oh, wow."

Nestled neatly in a bed of cotton was a cloak pin in the shape of the Pendragon crest, gleaming gold in the lamp light. Harry picked it up to examine it more closely. His "Arthur memories," as he called the knowledge and skill set specific to his old life, noted that it was lighter than pure gold, but the quality was excellent, and he instinctively knew it was made like his uncle's favorite watch, gold filled. He turned it over and saw that it was double clad. "Ron, how…."

"I got the raw materials from Bill, a good fire spell from Hermione, and tools and a room to work undisturbed in from Sirius," Ron said proudly. "Oh, and take a look at this." He touched a finger to the cloak pin in Harry's hand and said, "_Áhýde_." The dragon quivered and shifted into Gryffindor's lion rampant. "_Íewe_." The lion turned back into the emblem of the royal house of Camelot.

"I gave him those spells, too, but he did the enchantments himself," Hermione told Harry in an undertone. "Honestly, if I knew it would get him interested in learning I would have suggested having our past selves wake up in our present day bodies ages ago."

Through some great feat of willpower Harry resisted the urge to laugh and thanked Ron profusely, smiling to himself as his friend glowed at the praise.

"Ours is a two part gift," Lupin said, indicating Sirius as he spoke. He pulled two long and slender packages wrapped in un-dyed cloth and tied in red twine from the wardrobe, weighed them in his hands, and handed what appeared to be the heavier one to Sirius. The one he kept he brought to Harry and set in his hands. "A very happy birthday to you, Harry."

"Thanks, Remus," Harry said, untying the knotted twine and unrolling the soft, thick length of cotton until its contents fell out onto his lap.

He gawked. He'd never, not in this life nor in the last, seen a leather belt so fine, and the matching scabbard was an unbelievable cross between function and beauty. Both were made out of a tough black hide he'd never encountered before, and there were embellishments – just at the very tip and the mouth of the scabbard – that were a vivid red chased through with gold. "Remus, this is incredible."

"That black hide is from a Hebridean Black," Lupin said. "One of Albion's own, you might say. The accents are from a Chinese Fireball. That belt and that scabbard will last long enough for your grandson to bequeath them to one of his children in his will when he reaches old age. Oh, and there's an incredibly strong notice-me-not charm on that scabbard that activates when it has a sword in it. Only the people who know you have it can see through it."

"Thanks," Harry said, doing his best not to gush as he ran reverent fingers over the gorgeous scabbard. He shot Hermione a sidelong glance and asked jokingly, "What, no Spew for dragons?"

"It's SPEW," Hermione said, and this time the elbow in his ribs wasn't quite as gentle. "And there's no need, really. The International Accord on Draconian Cultivation of Nineteen Thirty-Three makes it illegal to harvest any products from them without waiting for them to die a natural death. Ostensibly it's for the protection of the dragon handlers, and it's true that dragon-related deaths have gone down by over ninety-five percent since then, but it's enough to put campaigning for the rights of dragons further down my to-do list for the moment."

Harry laughed loudly, hugging her around the shoulders again. "You're a treasure, Hermione. An absolute gem. Yes. After we save Albion, let's save the dragons, shall we?"

"I'm game," Ron said, shrugging, and Ginny smiled impishly and added, "Sounds like fun to me."

"Motion carries, dragon saving is officially on the agenda," Harry said, fully aware of the irony of committing to a cause that, if his father hadn't woken as well, would have had him spinning in his grave. He reached out to run his hand over his new scabbard again, stopped, and looked at Sirius. It couldn't be – but it had to be –

"Happy birthday," Sirius said as he handed Harry his half of the gift.

It was, unsurprisingly, quite heavy, and Harry unwrapped it with great enthusiasm. When it finally tipped gently out onto the bed, for a moment it was like seeing a phantom.

This was his broadsword. It lacked the inlaid golden runes of Fuþorc, and when he touched it, it didn't have the same indescribable presence as Excalibur, but all the same – this was _his sword_, all thirty-five inches of the mirror-bright blade tapering down to an angular point, his hilt with its black leather and gold wire wrapped grip and galleon-sized flat metal pommel, with its wide and well forged crossguard. If the Hogwarts ghosts were spectral echoes of their living selves, then he had to be looking at Excalibur's ghost. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, tried again, and shook his head and closed his mouth a second time.

"A Pendragon, lost for words," Ginny teased, but her face was soft as she watched him. "What has the world come to?"

"How?" Harry whispered, grasping the hilt and hefting it experimentally. As he had half-expected, it weighed just as much as Excalibur, one and a half kilograms and some change.

"I handled Excalibur quite a few times, and Ron saw it more often than he could reasonably be expected to recall when you were on campaigns or hunting trips or just on the training grounds, so we provided Sirius with the details we remembered, and he commissioned a sword for you to get back into practice with until you have Excalibur again," Ginny told him. "And it'll make an excellent backup sword."

"Yes." Harry looked up at Sirius and said around the lump in his throat, "Thank you, Sirius. Really. Thank you."

"You're most welcome," Sirius said. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that's a live blade, right? Good. There are some blunt practice swords in the third floor fencing salle that you're all welcome to use while you're here. I know Ron has been running through drills."

"When I can get away from Mum and her mad cleaning frenzy," Ron said. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Harry, but you set foot on a battlefield when you came here. General Molly Weasley is waging a full out war against Sirius's house this summer. Expect to be conscripted."

"From king to conscript in one fell swoop," Harry said. "Oh well. Worse has happened." He sheathed his sword and set it carefully aside next to his cloak pin and spellbook.

Ginny pulled a tiny box from her jacket pocket and sat on his other side. "Originally, I was going to return to my roots and join Ron up in the makeshift smithy Sirius set up for us, but when we were in Diagon Alley late this past June, I saw something in a secondhand knick-knacks shop and realized that I ought to return something to you instead."

Harry opened the box carefully and tipped its contents out into his hand. His heart leapt in his chest as he stared down at the heavy gold ring, the _royal Pendragon seal_, perched upon his palm. "What the hell?" he breathed.

"That was just about my reaction when I found it," Ginny said. "The shopkeeper didn't seem to know what it was that he had. It was almost as if there was a glamour or an illusion over it, to make it completely uninteresting to anyone but the right person."

"We never said anything, since we decided it was going to be a surprise for your birthday, but we're all certain it's no coincidence that the same week that Queen Guinevere woke up, she found the royal seal in a curio shop," Hermione said.

"Do you think…" Harry started.

Ginny nodded and folded his hand around one of the most important symbols of his office. "Yes. Merlin. It's the only explanation that makes even a bit of sense."

"But for that to make sense, Merlin would have to be – he couldn't have ever –" The horror of what Harry was saying struck him and he suddenly felt very glad he was already sitting down, as he'd just gone lightheaded in shock. "He – he couldn't have ever died."

"That's one we hadn't talked about," Hermione said, sounding grim. "I hope it's not true, which is the only reason why I've kept silent about it, but…. The druids called him Emrys. Harry…it means 'immortal'."

"Oh, God," Harry said, feeling ill at the thought. "Our Merlin, on his own all this time? Just _waiting_?"

Ginny took his head between her hands and looked deeply into his eyes. "We'll find him," she said with fierce conviction.

"And then we won't give him a moment's peace, just to make up for all the centuries without our high quality companionship," Ron quipped, breaking the tension and startling a weak laugh out of everyone present.

"You know, if you came back, then Gwaine and Percival must have as well," Harry said. "Between the three of you, me, Ginny, and Hermione, we're almost guaranteed to drive him round the twist inside of a month if we really give it our all."

"Somehow, saving the dragons sounds like a nobler cause," Sirius said.

"Oh, it's much nobler," Harry assured him. "But don't worry, he gives as good as he gets. And now that we all know he has magic – that he's stupidly, absurdly powerful, to be accurate – he can get us back in ways he never could have before."

"On second thought, annoying the piss out of the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth doesn't sound like the greatest idea," Ron said. "Best leave that to you, Harry. Have fun."

"And here I thought you were a Gryffindor," Harry said, shaking his head reprovingly. "But fine. I'll just tell him you're scared you can't handle what he might dish out if you start teasing him again –"

"Low blow," Ron said with a wince. "Low blow."

"I work with what I'm given," Harry said absently, his mind already moving on from joking around to the next item that needed discussing. He stood and paced the length of the space between the beds, turned, and asked abruptly, "Who do you think Snape is?"

"Gaius," Ginny said firmly as Ron said with equal conviction, "Agravaine."

There was a pause, and then,

"Agravaine," Hermione insisted, and Lupin argued, "Gaius."

"Great, our much beloved court physician or my treasonous uncle," Harry said. "I know which one I'm hoping for. Sirius?"

"Oh, no, I'm not casting a vote here. I wouldn't be able to say for certain one way or the other," Sirius said. "All of your pertinent memories of my brother and my friend were formed decades after I died. I wouldn't be of any help with this."

"Right," Harry said uncomfortably. "I forgot about that. Sorry."

"That Agravaine plotted to overthrow the crown, kill my son, and put a girl less than half his age, in whom he had a very unhealthy interest, on the throne of Camelot? Don't be," Sirius replied. "It's not your fault."

"No, I mean, I'm pretty sure Merlin killed him when we were making our escape. So I'm sorry about that."

"I'm not," Sirius said. "He tried to kill my _son_. I would've been happy hearing that he'd been trampled to death by a herd of pigs."

"That's a pleasant image," Hermione said with a blissful smile. "Add in a muddy lane and a farmer with a pitchfork and it's just perfect."

"Bloodthirsty child," Lupin chided. He winked at her unexpectedly. "I approve."

"She's one of a kind," Harry said fondly. "Now, do we have any sort of plan for discovering his identity?"

"I thought you were just going to talk to him," Lupin said, "Former liege lord to former subject of Camelot. Wasn't that the plan?"

"Yes, but if you've already narrowed it down, it'll either end in happy anecdotes or homicide," Harry said, "And I'd like to keep death off the table as an option. So." He began pacing again, seeds of an idea germinating in his mind. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Do you still knit?"

"Yes, I have some lovely dark gray yarn with me I've been meaning to use to make myself a winter hat."

"Can you enchant your knitting needles to do the work for you, so that it'll be done faster?"

"It's lazy, but I can do it. Why?"

Harry answered her question with one more question. "Do you think you can make a pair of, oh, let's say, fingerless gloves?"

Ginny promptly jumped in his arms. "That's genius! Harry, you sly devil, that's positively _subtle_. Magnificent!"

"I can do that," Hermione said with a growing smile. "I can absolutely do that."

"Oh, to be a fly on that wall when Harry talks to Severus," Harry overheard Lupin tell Sirius quietly, then, louder, "Alright, we've had the unofficial belated birthday, we've talked, and we have an immediate plan of action. I hate to do this to a bunch of reincarnated adults, but it's well past time for bed."

It must have been a great deal of surprise to Lupin, but Ginny and Hermione went to their shared room down the hall without complaint after getting in one last round of hugs (and in Ginny's case, a kiss as well) from Harry. Lupin bid them a cordial goodnight, and as Sirius was about to leave, Harry steeled his nerves and called him back.

"Harry?" Sirius asked, looking quite concerned. "Is anything wrong?"

Harry abruptly realized he was grimacing and schooled his face into a nice, neutral expression. "Nothing's wrong," he said. He wanted badly to stop there, but forced himself to continue. "I just thought you'd probably want to know that after we woke up, Uncle Vernon – Uther, I mean – and Sir Ector have been sleeping in different bedrooms. And Sir Ector's past self is much stronger, personality-wise, than Aunt Petunia, so they're getting a divorce, an amicable one, at the end of the summer, and Hermione and I are looking into magical ways to help him, er, get his body the way he wants it. He's moving to London in the fall, already has an eye on a flat. Uncle, er, Uther's moving here, too, to be closer to his work."

Sirius just blinked in the face of that flood of information, digested it for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You're a good kid, Harry," he said, pulling him into a one-armed hug and ruffling his hair. "Goodnight. Sleep well."

"You too, Sirius," Harry said, and as soon as Sirius was out of sight he ducked back into the bedroom and closed the door firmly. "Shut up," he said to his snickering best friend.

"I can't believe you're playing matchmaker between Sirius and your uncle," Ron chortled as he tugged his pajama shirt on over his head.

Harry shuddered. "Don't call it that." He followed Ron's lead, throwing open his trunk and retrieving his pajamas before shifting his birthday presents from the bed to the bottom of the wardrobe. He swiftly disrobed, tossing his unfolded clothes into the open trunk, pulled on his nightwear, and slid into bed before turning off the lamp on his bedside table with a murmured, "_Ádeorce_."

"What do you want me to call it, then?" Ron asked, still snickering.

Harry thought for a moment. The Harry half of him was backing away with his hands over his eyes at the thought of Uncle Vernon and Sirius together chanting "Ick! Ick! Ick!" The Arthur half, well, he wanted his parents to be happy, no matter what bodies they inhabited in this day and age….

"Call it a deeply unpleasant filial duty," Harry said.

Ron broke into a fresh round of laughter, and Harry groaned and flopped over on his side, sandwiching his ears between the mattress and his pillow. For the love of magic, he hoped Ron stopped soon. Otherwise, this was going to be a long, long night.

* * *

In Old English, or Anglo-Saxon, there are two characters that are quite possibly unfamiliar to a great many readers. They are ð and þ.

ð is pronounced like the "th" in the, breathe, and brother.

þ is pronounced like the "th" in thought, three, and thorn. In fact, it's called the thorn.

The spelling of Fuþorc isn't a mistake - it's a descendant of Elder Fuþark, and is the runic language used in the early years (well, early centuries would be more accurate) of Old English before the switch to half-uncial script about midway through the "life" of Old English.

Brythonic, while first and foremost a name for one of the two groups of Insular Celtic languages, is also interchangeable with British, a proto-Celtic language in its own right (also known as Cymraeg these days, as Diddleymaz very thoughtfully pointed out to me, and is one of Wales' two official languages).

Geekery done! Now it's asking nicely for reviews time! _(Please review this chapter?)_


	3. Dear Idiot, Sincerely, the Prat

Breakfast was an unusually quiet affair, considering that seven of the nine Weasleys were present, and from what Harry recalled of mealtimes at the Burrow, there was no such thing as quiet at the table. However, a cryptic comment in one of Hermione's letters about a portrait they'd learned to tiptoe past was explanation enough for the oddly well behaved twins, who Harry had thought would be wreaking havoc and casting spells all over the place now that they were of age. True, dishes were being levitated and floated across the table in lieu of a "please pass the sausages," but they did seem to be minding themselves for the most part. Harry firmly suspected that the air of self-satisfaction hovering about Mrs. Weasley had something to do with it as well as the mysterious portrait that seemed to strike dread into his friends' hearts.

Still, despite the lack of patented Weasley chaos, everyone was cheery and in good spirits; Bill, having been informed by Hermione the previous month that Harry intended to take the Ancient Runes OWL this year after doing 'a bit of self-study' to catch up, was giving Harry a rundown on the best books to read, as well as a few mnemonics he and his friends had come up with to make remembering the various runic languages easier ("They aren't precisely mnemonics, but they're close enough to call them that," Bill told him after running through 'the wealth the aurochs brought Thor of the Æsir made taking a journey by torch to find the perfect gift a joy'), and Ron was having a good-natured argument with Sirius's cousin, a young pink-haired auror Harry had been told was a Metamorphmagus who answered only to 'Tonks'. When Harry listened in for a few seconds, he had to bite his tongue not to burst into laughter. Tonks was attempting to give Ron a historical lesson in sword fighting, and Ron, God love him, could not for the life of him stop trying to correct her.

Eyebrows had been raised all around when Ginny took the seat beside Harry instead of leaving it open for Ron, and raised higher still when she scooted her place setting and chair closer to his, until they were almost pressed together elbow to elbow. Ron, Hermione, Sirius, and Lupin all made a point of looking unsurprised and quite supportive, and it was with minimal fuss and grumbling – though Harry did get long, evaluating looks from Fred and George that he withstood with as much equanimity as he could conjure after having been reunited with his queen the night before only to go to sleep alone in a skinny bed with his brother-in-law snoring on the other side of the room. Whatever it was they were looking for, they apparently found, as they smiled widely and toasted him with their glasses.

"And now that everyone approves, we get to start seeing each other again," Ginny had murmured in his ear. She'd reached for his hand under the table and pressed a small, soft bundle into it. "Just so we're clear on this, trying to sleep in the same room as a pair of furiously clacking knitting needles working all night is next to impossible."

"So's trying to kip when Ron's sleeping on his back," Harry had shot back in a whisper. They'd exchanged wry looks and couldn't help but laugh, and he slipped the completed gloves into his trouser pocket where they'd stay until he had the chance to talk to Snape.

Harry spent a good portion of breakfast scrutinizing the faces around the table, hoping to spot other long lost friends in a particular turn of phrase or familiar gesture, but aside from the five he'd had a joyful reunion with yesterday, the other Weasleys and Tonks remained firmly rooted in the present, no second identity hovering around them like a near-invisible aura. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was a relief to know that not everyone he knew and cared about cared for him in turn because of a mystical tie to a distant past they all had in common. On the other, the desire to know who else had returned, and in whose bodies, was like a bone deep itch, and he had to admit that his Arthur and Harry sides were in agreement that it would be a relief and a good deal easier if they were all people he counted as friends in this lifetime.

Breakfast had just finished and Mrs. Weasley was clearing away the dishes with the help – if it could be called that – of Fred and George when the faint sound of the Floo activating reached their ears. Everyone perked up but Hermione, who gasped softly and put her fingers against Harry's temples. "Dumbledore," she said under her breath. "Here. _Áhelle behinden þá scead_."

The strangest sensation of a shadow sliding across the front of Harry's mind almost made him flinch away from her touch. "What was that?" he asked her instead, as quietly as he could.

"I'm not sure if it was him or Snape, but they were both in the same room with me earlier this summer when I felt a touch inside my mind. Naturally, I asked Remus, and he said what I was describing sounded like something called Legilimency. I looked it up in the library and found a decent workaround to the issue of people attempting to read our thoughts without having to learn Occlumency on the sly," Hermione whispered in a rush, attempting to get all the words out before the footsteps coming down the stairs reached the kitchen.

"Good idea," Harry whispered back just as the first wizard came around the corner. He was sure that there was a perfectly benign and logical explanation behind Dumbledore's use of Legilimency, but there was no way that they were ready to make their secret known just yet.

The wizard in the lead was indeed Dumbledore, dressed as flamboyantly as usual in aquamarine robes spangled with shooting stars and deep blue boots that complemented his outfit perfectly. Following him was a serious-looking bald black wizard in scarlet auror robes and a thick gold earring through his left earlobe. Bringing up the rear was Severus Snape in his ubiquitous, high collared black robes, seemingly dour as usual. Upon further scrutiny, however, Harry saw a tension and anxiety in the set of his shoulders and the corners of his eyes that spoke of an entirely different reason for his frown. Harry looked down and away quickly, before Snape could catch him watching him. When he confronted Snape, be he Gaius or Agravaine, he wanted it to be on his terms and his terms alone.

"Headmaster, Kingsley, Severus," Mr. Weasley said, sounding surprised. "What brings you here this morning?"

"This," the auror, Kingsley, answered in Dumbledore's stead, tossing the morning's edition of the Daily Prophet onto the table. "Take a look."

Everyone leaned in to get a good look at the paper, and promptly recoiled at the sight of the enormous capital letters screaming across the front page: "OLDEST PROPHECY OF UNITED KINGDOM ACTIVE! ONCE AND FUTURE KING RETURNS!" In smaller lettering, the sub-heading read, "Is Britain's time of greatest need upon us?"

"I thought all the prophecies in the Department of Ministries were locked up tight under dozens of layers of secrecy and protection," Sirius said after gaping at the headline wordlessly for a long moment. "Word isn't supposed to get out about any of them, no matter the circumstances."

"From what I could gather, the 'Prophecy of Prophecies', as it's known by the magical beings of the British Isles, is an anomaly," Dumbledore said. "It's much older than any of the other prophecies on record in the Department of Mysteries, just a copy of a copy, and in a natural crystal, not a seer's orb. There's no telling who leaked the information, but it's such an old prophecy that it never qualified as protected against intrusion, and could be viewed by anyone who visited the Hall of Prophecies."

"Does it say when the prophecy activated?" Tonks asked.

Lupin tugged the paper over to his place and skimmed the article before answering, "Yes. An 'anonymous source' said that the crystal started showing signs of activity in June, around the end of the previous school year, and was fully 'alive' by the start of July. It's a minor miracle it took this long for the news to leak out. The Ministry's worse than a sieve when it comes to secrets."

"Yes, but the Department of Mysteries letting something like this slip!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "It's a disgrace!"

"It's also an opportunity," Dumbledore said solemnly. "If the prophecy recording started to become active in June, then it merely solidifies what we've been saying all along. I'm no Unspeakable, but I'd bet all the gold in Gringotts that Voldemort's resurrection is what brought King Arthur back to life. A few people asking the right questions and putting the dates together will lead to the public finally believing the truth – and perhaps preparing to protect themselves and their loved ones adequately." At the nods of all the adults, he continued. "Now, the real question is, how do we find the Once and Future King, and when we do, how do we convince him to aid us in our quest to defeat Voldemort?"

Harry very carefully showed no reaction to Dumbledore's words, neither in body language nor in facial expression. Sirius noticed this and scoffed, drawing all eyes toward him.

"You just said the key words, Albus. Once and Future King. If this is what he came back for, then you're better off offering him the Order's assistance than asking him to assist the Order," he said. "He's a legend, royalty, a king from the early sixth century. Being asked to join our merry bunch of vigilante misfits is hardly the way to go about winning the goodwill of King Arthur. Do yourself a favor and pledge the assistance of the Order to him as fighters or researchers or whatever anyone is best at instead, should you happen to find him."

Dumbledore looked less than pleased with Sirius's advice. He turned to Snape with eyebrows raised in a wordless question.

"Black…has a point," Snape said slowly, with what appeared to be great distaste in agreeing with Harry's godfather. "It would be imprudent to ask a man who reigned over a kingdom, who was raised to rule, to take a seat in the back and follow orders from someone else, especially if he already knows why he has returned. If he knows he has come back to save the Wizarding world from Voldemort, then asking him to stop and let others make all the decisions before pointing him in the right direction as if he were a weapon and not a man would not simply be unwise, it would be unjust, cruel, even."

_Ha!_ Harry grabbed Ginny's hand in both of his so he wouldn't give in to the urge to punch the air in triumph. Those were not the words of his uncle Agravaine.

"I'll certainly take your advice into consideration, both of you," Dumbledore said. He looked around the table at Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione and said, "I hate to cut your morning repast short, but this is news that merits an Order meeting. If you'll excuse us?"

"Of course, sir," Hermione said, pushing away from the table and standing. Harry followed suit along with Ron and Ginny. Both sides of him were protesting their dismissal; Harry knew a good deal of the meeting would have to do with Voldemort, and Voldemort was _his_ responsibility, so he should be allowed to stay and listen, and the side of him that was the thirty year old ruler of an entire kingdom and renowned warrior bristled at being left out of a council of war that revolved around _him_. He knew, logically, that the only way he could stay would be to reveal himself, and they'd all made a mutual decision when their letters were flying from London to Surrey and back to London again that they would keep the knowledge of their past selves secret from anyone who wasn't in the same boat as them until they felt the time was right. Right now, as a newly fifteen Harry Potter with few allies, no strong platform to bargain from, and no clue where Merlin was, was clearly not the right time if he wanted to be treated as an equal. Oh well. He knew he could count on Sirius and Lupin to fill them in on all that went on in the meeting after they left.

Hermione caught his eye, sketched the fuþorc rune 'sigel' in the air quickly, sloppily, so that anyone not expecting it might think she was just brushing a stray hair away from her face, and then ran her finger from the corner of her eye and down her cheek.

'S-cry'. Excellent. He knew Hermione would come through for them.

"You too, boys," Mrs. Weasley told Fred and George.

"But we're of age!" Fred protested.

"Come on, Mum!" George added.

"Listen to your mother," Mr. Weasley said, and just gave them a mild look when it appeared they were drawing breath for another round of arguing. They both deflated and followed Ron and Hermione out the door and up the stairs.

Harry hung back for a moment by the door, waiting for an opportunity to say something. Ginny was, by necessity, hanging back as well, thanks to the grip Harry had on her hand.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said. "Is there anything I can help you with before we start our meeting?"

"Not you, Professor, but thanks," Harry said. He squeezed Ginny's hand for luck, and she threaded their fingers together and squeezed back. "I actually need to talk to Professor Snape."

Snape turned toward Harry at the sound of his name, and got his first good look at him since coming into the kitchen. Harry called up all his acting talent to maintain a politely friendly expression as Snape's face went slack in shock and he let out a short, sharp breath that sounded as if he'd been whacked in the diaphragm and all the air had been driven from his lungs. His thin lips shaped a name that was definitely not 'Harry', and pained hope rose in his eyes for a brief second before it was quashed ruthlessly and plain old Professor Snape was back, watching him with an unreadable expression on his sallow face. It was a few too many seconds late, though. Harry had seen beneath the mask. Ginny and Lupin had the right of it. Agravaine wouldn't look at him with hope, or speak of him with respect. This was Gaius. Now there was only the small matter of getting him to admit it.

"What is it, Potter?" Snape asked, doing a credible imitation of someone irritated by a disliked student.

Harry chose his words carefully. "If it's not too much trouble, Professor, I have a few questions about our summer essay on healing potions. I know we're probably expected to write about burn paste and blood replenishing potions, but there's a man I knew once, a great physician, whose knowledge is practically unrivaled when it comes to the medicinal uses of herbs and plants native to the UK. I have my first draft written, but I'd like to run it past you after the meeting, if that's alright, to make sure that I'm not misremembering what I learned from hanging around his, ah, office, as it was some years back."

Snape stilled, and his next question hung heavy in the air between them. "You trust this physician?"

Harry knew that whether Snape stayed a few minutes after the meeting or left and isolated himself for good depended on how he answered. Luckily, there was only one answer to that question that Harry could give in all honesty. "I do, completely," Harry said. "Always."

"'Always', Potter?" Snape echoed, crossing the room to stand right in front of Harry and Ginny. His sneer looked forced, and he seemed as unnerved as Harry to discover that they were of a height now. He lowered his voice and went on. "This man must be a paragon of virtue. Certainly not the sort of person to let so much as a white lie cross his lips."

"I'm fairly certain he lied on a regular basis, actually," Harry said calmly, his voice lowered as well, "But as I know he only ever did so to protect a friend I love like a brother from unjust laws, I find that my trust in him is only strengthened by this fact."

"Perhaps he's changed," Snape said. There was a desperation in his dark eyes that bewildered Harry. Why was he trying so hard to push them, push _him_, away?

"We've all changed," Harry answered, and he smiled a little, letting some of the aching sadness of the Merlin-shaped hole in his life show on his face, just for a second. "But I told him once that I thought of him as family, and _that_ hasn't changed. It won't change in a dozen lifetimes."

"That goes for me as well, Professor," Ginny said quietly, with the gentle mien and warm presence that had won her the love of Camelot's people when she became queen. Snape looked like he was wavering, and her smile turned impish. "And really, sir, you're going to have to talk to us sometime. After all, Harry, Ron, and Hermione will be in your class for the next three years, and I'll be there for the next four."

Snape heaved a put-upon sigh and stepped away from them, saying at normal volume, "I'll give you five minutes of my time, Potter. Make it interesting and I'll stay longer."

"Great!" Harry exclaimed. "You won't regret it. I promise." Over Snape's shoulder he saw confusion on every face but Sirius's and Lupin's at his excitement at the opportunity to voluntarily spend time in the notoriously grouchy professor's presence and fought back a laugh.

"I already am," Snape said. "Out, Potter, Weasley. You're holding up the meeting."

"Yes, sir!" Harry said crisply. He saluted first his Potions professor, then the room in general, scooped Ginny up in a bridal carry, and ran from the room, her giggles trailing behind them as they went.

"You both owe me five sickles," Ginny told Ron and Hermione with more than a touch of gloating when Harry set her down halfway up the stairs. They groaned in unison and dug into their pockets as she and Harry sat down beside them, and the twins cocked their heads at the four of them quizzically.

"But it's Snape," Ron griped as he deposited his sickles into Ginny's outstretched hand. "_Snape_."

"Two words for you, Ron," Harry said. "Vernon Dursley. And that's one of the less weird pairs of words I could've chosen."

"Fair point," Ron admitted. "But still. Snape."

"Don't you think if anyone has a right to complain about it, it's me?" Harry asked. "He's had it in for me since my very first Potions lesson at Hogwarts, more than anyone else from Gryffindor. You and Hermione got treated badly simply on the grounds of being my friends, but he saved his worst for me. But you don't hear me whining, do you? We have to take this as the – the gift that it is. Just like with everyone else."

"Your point's well-illustrated," Hermione said, cutting in before Ron could work up a full head of steam. "Fine. Yes. We were wrong; Ginny and Remus were right. Personally, I've never been gladder to be mistaken in my life. The other option was rather…." She shuddered delicately in lieu of finishing her sentence.

"You lot have become a tad more cryptic since school let out," George said from his seat on the step above Ron and Hermione.

Fred nodded in agreement. "Took a correspondence course in how to be mysterious and circumspect, have you?"

"We were at the top of the class," Ginny said, straight-faced.

"And you're not going to tell us a thing," George said. "Are you?"

"Mm, no, not yet," Hermione said. "Now hush." She cupped her hands around the glass of water that she'd apparently made off with without anyone noticing and whispered a spell across the surface. "_Diegol cnytte, gewytte me yst, álýme þá rúne_."

The clear water turned into a colorful scene of the kitchen and the occupants gathered about its table. The twins' eyes lit up, and they joined Harry, Ron, and Ginny in crowding around Hermione for a decent look into the miniature, makeshift scrying bowl. Little voices emanated from within the glass, each with their own watery echo, as they debated what to do about King Arthur now that magic had seen to it that he was back to save the British Isles from the threat of Voldemort. The general consensus seemed to fall in line with what Sirius and Snape had advised: should they find him, they'd offer him their support in whatever way was most useful to him.

They all smothered laughter at Snape's peevish answer to Dumbledore's less than pleased reaction to being overruled. "I've known you were a Gryffindor for a long time, Albus, but you've really taken up the standard and run with it today. Listen to me, for Salazar's sake. Arthur Pendragon is a sixth century king – an absolute monarch – and a blooded warrior who not only repelled invaders from taking Camelot, but made strong allies with rulers of neighboring lands and expanded his own kingdom. If you try and play politics with him, he will run you in circles. If you try to put him in a subordinate position to you, he'll walk away and take on Voldemort without you. Magic deemed this his battle. Can you put down your 'Gryffindors forward' banner and just think on that for a while?"

"History buff, d' you think?" Fred asked curiously. "Seems like a big fan of old King Arthur."

"Or something," Harry agreed. He got to his feet and worked his way carefully through the tangle of bodies clogging up the stairs. "I have to go and get my Potions essay. When the meeting's out, tell Snape I'm in the second floor library, will you?"

"Sure," Fred said. "Actually, hang on a second, Harry. When you got here last night and this lot here rushed you off before we could stick our heads around the corner and say hello, we went up to your room and couldn't hear so much as a peep from inside."

"Not even with these," George said, holding up what looked like a long, pale, fleshy string with an ear dangling from one end. "How's that possible?"

"Anti-eavesdropping runes carved into the lintel," Hermione answered absently for Harry as she gazed into the glass in her hands. "Go on, Harry. We'll fill you in on the rest of the meeting later."

"Thanks." Harry took the steps two at a time until he reached the ground floor, then glanced about to make sure his path was clear before starting to sprint the rest of the way across the floor and up the two flights of stairs to his room. He'd hardly started, though, when a rough grumbling brought him to a dead stop.

"– Dirty people, they are, blood traitors and mudbloods and half-breeds," the rough, wheezing voice muttered. "Defiling my mistress's house, those nasty redheads and their nasty friends. Oh, if she could see it now, the shame!"

The owner of the voice trundled into view from around a corner, and Harry found himself hard-pressed not to stare. It was an ancient, emaciated house elf, and he was, from the tips of his hairy ears to his cracked yellow toenails, pillowcase and all, absolutely _filthy_. The house elf looked up at Harry with blood-shot eyes and scratched the tip of his nose with a fingernail encrusted with dirt. "And there's the new one, the blood traitor Master's horrible half-blood godson," he muttered to himself in a carrying voice. "He stares so vacantly, doesn't he? Perhaps he's feeble-minded from the curse that hit his head."

Harry clenched his fists. "Excuse me?"

"Does Master's godson need anything from Kreacher?" the house elf asked, then said in an aside, "Always demanding, they are, so many demands on old Kreacher. So many demands they have, and only one Kreacher, but Kreacher doesn't have to obey, no, Kreacher only has to listen to nasty Master. Oh, poor Mistress, poor Mistress!"

Harry thought. His immediate wish was for Kreacher to shut his disgusting mouth and go away, but that wasn't a need, and he couldn't afford to think like an emotional teenager anymore – even if that was a good half of what he was. He recalled Dumbledore's words from when he'd come into the kitchen with Snape and the auror, Kingsley, and nodded, kneeling down so that Kreacher wasn't straining to look up at him. "There is something," he said quietly. "Have you seen the Daily Prophet today?"

"Kreacher is too busy keeping house to read papers," Kreacher said grumpily. "What wizard news concerns a poor old house elf like Kreacher?"

"The Prophecy of Prophecies is active," Harry told him after taking a moment to pray that he wasn't making a monumental mistake.

Underneath the layer of grime covering his skin, Kreacher went white, then a rosy pink glow of excitement filled his thin cheeks. "The Prophecy of Prophecies!" he whispered reverently. "The Prophecy of Prophecies!" He took a corner of his dirty pillowcase and began scrubbing vigorously at his face. He only succeeded at rubbing the grayish dust deeper into his skin.

"Here," Harry said, taking pity on him and handing him one of the many clean handkerchiefs with a monogrammed red 'P' superimposed over an outline of a gold dragon in the corner that Uncle Vernon and Ector had pressed on him before he'd left Privet Drive. It was a bit old fashioned, but then, so was the Wizarding world, and he was finding that keeping one on his person was actually rather handy.

Kreacher gave him a look that was half gratitude, half suspicious curiosity, wet the corner of Harry's handkerchief with his tongue, and attacked his dirty face with it with great vigor. "This is very – oh, by the great Mab – so very wondrous – and exciting – exciting, yes," he mumbled to himself as he cleaned himself up. "Now our oaths can be fulfilled, by the great Mab and the first brownie, they can."

"So this prophecy means a lot to you," Harry stated. Kreacher gave him a scandalized look and clutched the handkerchief to his chest.

"A lot! Everything! It means all! All magical beings know it, and most vowed loyalty long ago, but to the great Queen Mab's subjects, the fair folk, pixies and brownies and fairies and leprechauns, even doxies and red caps, it is everything! Our long-ago fathers and once-upon-a-time mothers swore to the Queen that when the Prophecy of Prophecies came to be, their not-yet sons and someday-daughters would stand at the Once and Future King's side to save Albion from a terrible danger." Kreacher reached out with a bony hand and grasped a fistful of Harry's shirt. "Where is the Once and Future King, Master's godson? Where is the Pendragon?"

Harry tapped the handkerchief currently being strangled in Kreacher's other hand and said, feeling oddly certain that he was making the right decision in telling the old elf, "Much closer than you might expect."

Kreacher let go of Harry and carefully uncrumpled the handkerchief, looking it over carefully. When he saw the monogrammed corner, he stared at it for a long while, then let out a hoarse gasp and bowed creakily from the waist, so deeply that his nose nearly scraped the floorboards. "Master's godson is the Pendragon king!" he said with hushed awe. "Kreacher never thought he'd live to meet the Pendragon king."

"Rise, Kreacher," Harry said, helping the old elf stand upright. "My identity is a secret for now, and I'll need to count on your discretion to help keep this between us and the others in Grimmauld Place who were reincarnated as well. Can I trust you with this?"

Kreacher puffed out his spindly chest and nodded vigorously. "Kreacher is a Black house elf, sire, but the Prophecy of Prophecies is in a house elf's blood and bones. Family bonding magic is like water next to the Prophecy of Prophecies. The Pendragon king has Kreacher's fealty, and Kreacher's silence."

Harry grinned. "I thank you, Kreacher." He stood up and motioned toward the stairs with his head. "I have to fetch an assignment from my room. Will you join me? I'll fill you in on the rest on the way."

Kreacher's face split into a wide, excited smile, and he and Harry walked up the two flights of stairs together, Harry walking a bit slower than usual and Kreacher walking with a quick hop-shuffle-skip, as Harry covered all the major points since waking – who was whom, what the great danger was, their tentative plans – while he and his unexpected ally made their way to his room. To Harry's distinct lack of surprise, Kreacher was aghast that he'd been so insufferably rude to a high priestess of the Old Religion, a knight of the Round Table, the queen of Camelot, the court genealogist, and King Arthur's mother (though Kreacher did seem to stifle a snort of laughter at Sirius's identity when Harry revealed it to him).

They parted ways at the doorway to the library, Harry gripping his draft of his Potions essay and Kreacher hugging the now soiled handkerchief. Kreacher bowed low again before Harry could stop him.

"Kreacher wishes the Pendragon king all the best in his talk with his physician," he croaked, and looked down at himself ruefully. "Kreacher has not seen to his job properly for a long time. If sire will excuse this old elf, there is much cleaning to be done to make this a fit place to live for the king and his court. Kreacher thinks he will start with cleaning himself."

"Of course," Harry said, addressing him as he would an old and respected retainer. Kreacher's back straightened and his shoulders squared at Harry's tone, and he looked up at him with pride before popping away. Harry smiled to himself and slipped inside the library to wait for Snape.

He didn't have to wait long. A scant handful of minutes passed before Snape swept in and closed the door behind him.

"Alright, Potter," Snape said impatiently. "Let's see this essay of yours and get it over with. I have more important things to do than check the homework of a student during my summer holiday."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "But first, I have something for you." He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out the soft bundle Ginny had passed him during breakfast, and pressed it into Snape's hands.

"Potter, what –" Snape started, looking down at the neatly knitted charcoal gray yarn.

"I know you won't have much use for them now, seeing as it's summer, but the castle can get cold, especially the dungeons and the Potions classroom, and I thought they might come in handy when autumn comes around," Harry said, deliberately rambling a bit to add a touch of nervousness to his voice. "Plus, now that I know it's, well, _you_, I can hardly picture you without them."

Snape carefully unrolled the bundle to reveal a pair of fingerless gloves. After a long moment of simply looking down at them, he harrumphed and said, emotion making his voice scratchy, "You're a manipulative and underhanded brat, Arthur Pendragon."

Harry collapsed against the wall, relief leaving him weak-kneed and giddy. "I learned from the best," he said, grinning. "Though to be honest, I think my Slytherin tendencies are more Harry Potter than Arthur Pendragon. Who knows; if I weren't Arthur as well, perhaps I'd have been sorted there instead of given a choice between the two houses."

"You – no, never mind," Snape said, shaking his head. "That's a question for another day. I want to know how you know, when you first knew, what you know, and who else knows."

"Are you certain?" Harry asked. He ventured a lightly teasing smile. "After all, Remus told me yesterday that you were threatening to hex anyone who wanted to talk to you about Camelot."

"I had my reasons," Snape said. "Now. Tell me."

"I started having strange dreams around when school let out, fully 'woke up' a few weeks later, along with the Dursleys, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny know, and there was a fifty-fifty split on whether you were Agravaine or, er, _you_, with Sirius abstaining, so the gloves were really just a good guess," Harry rattled off. "They were my idea, and Hermione provided the yarn and enchanted the knitting needles. Oh, and Kreacher knows, but it's alright, since apparently all elves and fairies and the like are sworn to help the Once and Future King when he returns. I'm still having some trouble wrapping my head around the idea that that's me."

"You aren't the only one," Snape said with a raised eyebrow. He looked so much like his old self in that moment that Harry couldn't stop his smile from growing. "What?"

Harry shrugged and smiled wider. "I just – I really missed you. In this life and the last, you're the only person who's ever come remotely close to being a decent parental figure. I _really _missed you, Gaius."

Snape looked at him uneasily, fiddling with his gloves. "Potter – Arthur – Harry – don't go doing something stupid like – _oof_!"

Harry laughed and flung his arms around his old friend, hugging him tightly, not bothered in the least by how Snape held himself stiff instead of returning the hug.

"Something like that," Snape said waspishly, but he relaxed marginally and patted Harry on the back with his free hand.

"Admit it," Harry said. "You missed me."

"I'll admit no such thing," Snape said as he freed an arm, but his fond, exasperated tone belied his words. A second later a sharp, stinging slap was delivered to the back of Harry's head, and he yelped and let go.

He rubbed his head and attempted to glare at Snape. "What was that for?" he asked indignantly.

"That was for getting yourself killed like an idiot," Snape said. "If I can live to the ripe old age of eighty in Sub-Roman Britain, _you_ can manage to live past thirty this time."

"You'll get no argument from me about that," Harry said. "I intend to have a long and productive life. Marry my wife again, have a few children this time, go into a meaningful career that will help improve the Wizarding world, and die peacefully in bed when I'm old and wizened and surrounded by my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren."

"You have my approval on this plan," Snape said with satisfaction. He hesitated and continued, lowering his voice, "Do you have news about Merlin? I've been trying to find out who he came back as since I woke up almost a month and a half ago."

"Hermione has a theory – and it's a sound one – that he wasn't reincarnated," Harry said. At the look of heartbreak on Snape's face, he rushed on. "We think he never died, and that he's still around, just waiting for the prophecy to kick in. Sorry. I should have led with that."

"That would have been better, yes," Snape said. "You believe he's still alive? Immortal? Truly?"

"As Hermione pointed out, it's in the name the druids gave him," Harry said. "'Emrys'."

"Ah." Snape went silent for a moment, then tugged the draft of Harry's essay from his hand. "I'll return this tomorrow. In the meantime, we – and by that, I mean all of us – must think of some way to get in touch with Merlin. We'll compare notes when we see each other next, and put the most logical plan into action." He turned to stride to the library fireplace, but before he could reach for a fistful of floo powder, Harry called after him.

"So are you going to talk to the others?"

"I don't know what you mean," Snape said tersely.

"Hermione feels guilty for everything she put you through in our last life, Remus misses his old friend, Sirius wants to get to know you again, Ginny's as happy to see you as I am, Ron's pleased you're not my uncle Agravaine," Harry said, ticking them off on his fingers. "If you won't talk to all of them, will you at least talk to Hermione and Sirius?"

"Are you speaking as my student or as my king?" Snape asked. He took a step away from the fireplace and shook his head, saying, "It's more complicated than you can understand. I certainly don't blame Miss Granger for what was done nearly fifteen hundred years ago, and if she needs to hear that from me herself, fine. But don't ask me to befriend Black. It doesn't matter who he was in his last life. In this life, he was an incorrigible and unrepentant bully all throughout Hogwarts, and I – no, Arthur."

"I do understand, though," Harry said. "I wasn't the only one to wake up at my relatives' house. My father, Sir Ector, and Sir Kay all came back as Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, respectively."

"I don't see what that has to do with this," Snape said.

"It has everything to do with it," Harry said seriously, doing his best to keep his voice level, "Because until this summer, I lived in an abusive household. I didn't have a proper bedroom until my first Hogwarts letter arrived addressed to 'the Cupboard under the Stairs'. After that, they gave me Dudley's second bedroom. They withheld food for days as punishment for rule breaking, even when I was young and had no control over my magic. I did all the chores. All of them. There are – were, until Uther and Ector woke up and took them off – four padlocks on the outside of my bedroom door. And because I was stuck with them for another month and a half, and they are my father and two loyal knights, I had to find it within me to forgive them. Besides, they were brought back as well. I couldn't very well hold onto my dislike when there's a good chance that they might be here for a reason."

The Snape of old would have dismissed the words with a sneer, but this wasn't just Harry's foul-tempered Potions professor anymore, and he accepted Harry's story with a nod and a steady, sympathetic look. "How did you forgive them?" he asked.

"It took some time," Harry said. "Some of it was finding the right combination of time spent together and time spent away from them. But what really helped was the huge argument we had not much more than a week after we all woke up. We, er, lanced the wound, so to speak. Got all the really ugly unspoken things aired and dealt with. It made a difference."

Snape gave a jerky nod. "I'll think about it," he said. He turned back toward the fireplace, and Harry stopped him once more. He looked over his shoulder at Harry with more than a touch of impatience. "What now?"

"Aren't you going to ask who Sirius is?" Harry asked, grinning.

"Please, Arthur, tell me who Sirius is," Snape said in a bored monotone.

Harry flashed him his most winning 'Arthur' smile. "He's my mum."

When Harry was once again the only one left in the library, he idly hoped that Snape had made it back to his home with no unexpected detours. After all, he'd been laughing rather hard as he'd called out the floo address.

** ** ** Hour of Greatest Need ** ** **

The day had passed rather swiftly. Hermione, Ginny, and Ron had been quick to tell him that after he left, the meeting got very boring, and in return he'd told them the surprising news regarding house elves and the 'Prophecy of Prophecies' and how his conversation with Snape had gone. They'd been called back downstairs after Dumbledore and Kingsley left to have Harry's 'official belated birthday party', as Sirius and Hermione had dubbed it, and after opening presents – amongst which were such highlights as a monstrously thick book titled "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Runic Alphabets from Cuneiform on Down" from Hermione, a wand holster matching his belt and scabbard from Sirius, all the proper tools and equipment for proper sword maintenance and care packaged in a 'wand care kit' from Lupin, a penknife from Bill with two blades, one for cutting potions ingredients and one for carving runes (when Mrs. Weasley wasn't watching, he showed Harry the set of lock-picks, the tiny torch, and the miniature refillable phial that came pre-stocked with Invigoration Draught that also pulled out of and folded back into the knife), the box of prototype pranks from Fred and George, and the trio of hats – a black trilby, straw fedora, and herringbone cabbie hat – from Ginny that she got him so that he might go about in public in Wizarding areas unmolested.

All of these but the penknife were hauled away to Harry and Ron's room, and the two of them, along with Hermione, Ginny, Sirius, and Lupin, were making a halfhearted attempt at following Mrs. Weasley's orders to clean the first floor parlor while shamelessly ruining their appetites for supper on the box of sweets from Honeydukes Sweetshop that Ron had bought him. They were all bouncing around ideas for how to get Merlin's attention, and they'd slid from the potentially practical to the ridiculous by the time the six of them had made their way through half the box.

"Skywriting," Hermione suggested, tossing Harry a small, flat piece of wood.

Harry bent over it and began a new row of runes. The sack at his feet was filling up rather quickly with similar looking pieces of wood, carved with words like 'deafen', 'sleep', and 'drench'. He started on the first rune for 'invisible' and asked, "Hiring a professional in a plane or getting on a broom and pulling a 'Surrender Dorothy' maneuver?"

"Good question," Hermione said. She frowned thoughtfully. "The latter would save on money, but there is the Statute of Secrecy to think about."

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Ron said. "But how's this for an idea: Harry takes out an ad in the Daily Prophet classified section?"

"It's better than the personals section," Harry said. He stopped midway through the word and blew the wood shavings off it and onto the floor. "Let's say we go with that. What would I even say?"

"Yes, it would have to be in code of some sort," Ginny said. "You certainly can't take out an ad that says 'King Arthur in London looking for Merlin. Anyone with answers write in care of Geoffrey', et cetera."

"On the one hand, that would cause a riot if the Daily Prophet believed it," Lupin said. "On the other, they most likely wouldn't, and then that ad would never get published."

"Just write something insulting," Hermione said. "Merlin would certainly believe it was really you."

Harry lounged deeper into the sofa cushions and started the final rune with a stab. "Something like, 'Dear idiot, I'm alive, kicking, and waiting for the worst manservant in the world to bring me my breakfast. Where on Earth are you? Most sincerely, the prat.'" A voice from over his shoulder made him jump and almost spear his thumb with his new knife as he finished the word.

"That would be an excellent idea," Snape said as he walked around the sofa and into view, "But I'm afraid he beat you to it."

Harry dropped his carving into the sack absently, hardly noticing that it and all its contents disappeared from view as he did. Snape's face was composed, but his eyes were alight with energy and wild hope. "What do you mean?"

In response, Snape held out the Evening Prophet, turned to the classifieds page, and tapped his finger against a small ad down in the lower left corner. Harry took the paper from him and read the ad aloud to his intently listening audience.

"Milord Clotpole," he read, and stopped, surprised to find his eyes misting at the familiar insult. He blinked until his vision cleared and started over. "Milord Clotpole: I'm waiting in the same place where we parted company last. It's very boring here. Come save me from the tender mercies of the New Agers. Your servant, Dragoon the Great."

"He's…" Hermione whispered.

"He really is," Ginny said, tears clinging to her eyelashes as she took Harry's hand and smiled happily. Out of the corner of Harry's eye he could see Ron grinning like an idiot.

"Arthur," Snape said intensely, "Where is he referring to when he says 'where we parted company last'?"

"Avalon," Harry said. He looked down at the unassuming little ad and had to do some more fast blinking. "Lake Avalon. That's where he was taking me to be healed."

Ron nodded. "So we're –"

"Yes," Harry said, feeling determination creep through his veins and steel his nerves. "We're going to Glastonbury."

* * *

_Reviews are lovely things that make for happy writers. Please let me know what you think of the chapter!_


	4. The Set-up to a Bad Joke

"_Ænoteu, dwæsu gewiglung_!" Hermione swore, tossing the crystal on a leather thong at Harry, who caught it neatly in one hand, and the map of Glastonbury at Ron, who caught that as well before proceeding to make a mess out of folding it again.

"It's not a useless, stupid spell," Ginny said mildly as she took the map from her brother and folded it up neatly. "Not completely, at any rate. Harry managed to confirm that Merlin is in this town, didn't he?"

"That's as far as any of us got, though," Harry said. "What does he expect us to do, walk every street until we find his house?"

"Perhaps," Snape said, with a measure of patience Harry could hardly believe. "But perhaps not. He has to know that with the news of the prophecy being leaked, Ynys yr Afalon is already being overrun by witches and wizards pretending to be muggles on holiday. We have to use our heads. Now, what do we know for certain?"

"Merlin's here in Glastonbury," Ron said. "That's a fact."

"And Harry's the only one who can search for him by magical means, but dowsing apparently has its limits, and scrying is a complete waste of time," Hermione added.

"Not to mention, we're all very recognizable – well, you are," Harry said, smugly tugging his fedora down lower on his forehead, straightening his well-fitting Pendragon-red tee shirt, and brushing nearly unnoticeable wrinkles from his jeans. "A glamour or something wouldn't go amiss in keeping attention off us."

"What? Sn – ah, Professor Snape might get recognized, but the rest of us will blend in alright," Ron protested.

"Hardly," Snape countered. "Thanks to that odious Skeeter woman and her photographer, everyone who read the Daily Prophet last year knows what Harry Potter's best friends look like, and you and your sister are obviously Weasleys. But you raise a good point. Those who recognize me who aren't Hogwarts students or alumni from the past fourteen years will undoubtedly be people of an unsavory character. Arthur's suggestion is a good one. Charms, transfigurations, and glamours all around, students."

"Even me?" Harry asked. Snape looked him up and down with a critical eye and shook his head.

"Not necessary. Your clothes and your growth spurt are disguise enough, I believe, so long as you keep your hat on. However, if you'll allow me to provide you with different glasses…."

Harry promptly whipped off his glasses and handed them over to Snape, who tapped them with his wand and muttered, "_Duplicatum_." A second pair popped into being, and it was these that Snape turned his attention to, sweeping the tip of his wand over the frames, dragging and molding and gently reshaping them until they were a bit smaller and had a vaguely rectangular shape to them. A nonverbal transfiguration spell changed them from black plastic to a subtle dark grey metal. Snape placed Harry's old glasses into his shirt pocket and gave Harry the new ones.

"Better," Snape said with satisfaction once Harry settled his new glasses on his face.

"How do they look?" Harry asked.

"Don't worry, _geong broðor_," Hermione teased, "Merlin will still think you're the prettiest king at the ball."

"Shut up, Morgana," Harry retorted.

"Very original," Hermione said, sounding deeply unimpressed. "You do know that whenever a comeback is 'shut up', the other person wins by default."

"Oh, the joys of having an older sister again," Harry said, and turned to Snape. "Thanks for the glasses, sir."

"My pleasure, Arthur," Snape said. He cast his gaze around the other three teens and pointed to Hermione. "Miss Granger next, I believe."

Before Hermione could voice her protest, Snape whipped his wand in her direction and her hair immediately began to straighten and turn several shades darker until it was almost a match for Harry's hair color. Another twitch of his wand, and her light brown eyes turned a pale blue-green.

Hermione fidgeted under everyone's stunned, silent stares. "What?" she demanded.

Ginny dug into her purse and came up with a small mirror, which she handed to Hermione wordlessly. Hermione took one look at her reflection and gasped.

"I look like I –"

"Like we're actually related to each other for the first time ever," Harry said as soon as he recovered his equilibrium, stealing the mirror and draping an arm around her shoulders. "Relax. No one's going to look at you and see Morgana Pendragon any more than they're going to see Hermione Granger. Today, we're just any other brother and sister out for a walk in Glastonbury with our friends." He snuck a surreptitious look at his own reflection and made a mental note to not return his new glasses to Snape after the day was over. They looked much nicer than his old pair.

"Queen Weasley or Sir Weasley next?" Snape asked briskly.

"I'll go next," Ginny said, stepping up and stealing back her mirror from Harry. "Just, no unpleasant surprises, please."

"You have my word," Snape said, and with two economical movements he turned her hair a deep chestnut and vanished all her freckles. He turned to Ron and did the exact same to him, then, finally, turned his wand on himself, closed his eyes, and muttered a cantrip in Old English. Before their eyes, he shrank an inch, his hair lightened to a silvery white, his face softened and wrinkled, and his nose lost its dramatic hook-like bridge. When he opened his eyes, they were a light blue.

Harry and his friends stared at Gaius, present, in the flesh, and dressed in modern-day muggle clothing.

Snape stared back. "It's a fine disguise," he said irritably. "Aside from you four, the Dursleys, and the two we left behind at Grimmauld Place, the only people likely to recognize me as my old self are Arthur's knights. Well? We don't have all day. There's only so many ways Lupin, Black, the twins, and the house elf can give Molly Weasley the run-around before she realizes you aren't at Headquarters."

The reminder brought Harry back to the here and now with an abrupt thud, and he blinked dazedly before answering. "Right. Well, we're disguised, we're in the right town, and while we don't have all day, we do have a few hours, possibly more. Now it's just a matter of figuring out how to find Merlin."

"It's going to come down to you, I think," Hermione said. "None of us could dowse for him on the map. He may have hidden himself from being found by magical means by anyone but you."

"And how would he know I have magic this time around?" Harry asked.

"I don't think he does," Snape said. "I read the muggle paper this morning at my home before I came by to collect all of you and I saw the same advertisement. It could be that he just expects that you'll know where to look."

"Oh!" Ginny unfolded the map and pulled a self-inking quill from her purse. "That makes perfect sense." She pored over the map, her fingers tracing street names, and every so often she stopped and circled one. When she was done, she handed it over to Harry. "Here. These are our most likely places to find his home."

"Pendragon Park," Harry read aloud. "Chalice Way, Avalon Estate, Ferryman Road. Nicely spotted, Ginny."

"I like to think I know him, too," Ginny said with a smile.

Ron took the map from Harry and frowned thoughtfully. "We should start with Avalon Estate and Ferryman Road. They're practically right next to each other."

"Is there anything else we can do? The Four Points spell?" Ginny asked.

"That only points to true North," Harry said. "But that gives me an idea."

"What's that?" Hermione asked curiously.

"This." Harry took the discarded dowsing crystal on the leather thong and held his hand over it. "_Ábeþece_ Merlin."

The crystal gave off a dim glow for a moment before returning to normal. For a second, Harry thought that his spell had failed. Then the crystal swung out slightly, pointing to the northeast instead of directly down at the ground at his feet.

Ron laughed. "A reverse _accio_ spell! Brilliant!"

"And it looks like your hunch was right," Snape told Ron, studying the direction the crystal was being pulled toward. "It does indeed seem to be indicating that we travel toward Avalon Estate and Ferryman Road."

"Then we'd better start walking," Harry said, and he wrapped the thong around his hand a few times to shorten the crystal's lead until it didn't look nearly so obviously magical. When he was satisfied, he set his free hand on the hilt of his magically obscured sword and scabbard, looked over his 'troops' – his high priestess half-sister turned muggleborn daughter of dentists; his wife and queen, now the younger sister of his best friend; his loyal knight and brother-in-law turned sixth son of a family rich in love, if poor in galleons; and his loyal and long serving court physician and more than occasional surrogate parent, otherwise known in this life until yesterday as his most hated professor and the bane of Hogwarts – and felt, for the first time since waking up, more like his old self than his new self. He had a purpose. He was on a mission. He was getting Merlin back…and then he and his people were going to save Albion.

It was with the voice of a man who knows his orders are going to be followed, his field command voice, that he said, "Let's move out."

"There's my Arthur," Ginny murmured in Brythonic, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Remembering how to be king again?"

They walked casually as a group out from behind the Glastonbury Young People's Centre (which, to Harry's great amusement, was right across from the King Arthur pub) and headed east on Benedict Street, Ginny on his left arm, Ron on his right, guarding his side almost instinctively, Hermione and Snape bringing up the rear.

"More and more every day," Harry replied quietly in the same language.

"Good," Ginny said. "We're going to need that in the time to come if we're to make it through in one piece."

Harry remembered the heart-wrenching pain of loss at the deaths of Elyan, miraculously returned to him and within arm's reach, and of Lancelot, who, thanks to one of his many owl post conversations with Hermione, had been restored to his place of honor and trust in Harry's eyes, and the keen sting of betrayal at Mordred's flight from Camelot when the boy he'd looked upon as friend and protégé had turned to Morgana in his grief and anger. "I will not lose anyone else again," Harry vowed. "Not to Voldemort and his followers' curses, nor to his poisonous lies."

"You aren't alone in this," Hermione said. "You have all of us – and there are more than just the few we know of, surely – and all of your people love you."

"Not quite like Ginny does," Ron said with a crooked smile, "But enough to follow you to the gates of hell without turning back."

"I would certainly hope you don't love him that way," Ginny said, peering around Harry to raise an eyebrow at her brother. "There was enough gossip going around about Arthur and Merlin before Arthur started publically courting me to fill one of Geoffrey's enormous old books. We certainly don't need to add to it by throwing in the knights."

"Me and Merlin? Gossip?" Harry asked. "Truly? I never heard any of this."

"Yes, well, you wouldn't have, would you?" Ginny pointed out. "Servants generally don't let royalty know that they're gossiping about them. Especially when the gossip involves the crown prince, his manservant, and an illicit, torrid affair."

"Torrid affair?" Harry repeated blankly. At Ginny's faux-innocent look, he threw his head back and howled with laughter, coming to a dead stop on the pavement. He was vaguely aware of passers-by staring as he clutched his ribs and laughed hysterically, which was a sure sign that he was blowing their 'casual' approach to pieces, but he just couldn't stop. Every concerned inquiry and nudge to keep moving from his friends just brought on a fresh wave of laughter. Finally, _finally_, with ribs aching and lungs heaving, he wiped away the tears leaking from his eyes with the back of his hand and said with a chuckle, "If the servants wanted to gossip about a knight of Camelot who was more likely to attempt to find a way to get Merlin into his bed, they really ought to have taken a harder look at the lot of us and picked the gambling, carousing, flirt and not the one who was head over heels in love with the same woman for years before he married her."

"Gwaine?" Ginny asked as they resumed their walk. "You think Gwaine and Merlin –"

"I've no idea, and I'm not about to come to any conclusions and then pass them off as fact," Harry said with a wicked smile. "That would be gossiping. I certainly don't gossip about my knights."

"Oh, but you gossip about Merlin?" Hermione interjected.

"No, this is definitely about Gwaine," Ron said reassuringly.

"How are you so certain?" Hermione asked, and Ginny echoed, "Yes, Ron, how?"

"Ron, define Gwaine – when he didn't have a sword in his hand," Harry said.

"He flirted with pretty things, liked Merlin the best, and was more than a little opportunistic," Ron answered promptly.

"So you're saying that Gwaine…liked pretty things," Ginny said slowly, "And you're also implying that he found _Merlin_…pretty. Yet you're drawing no conclusions."

"None at all," Harry said cheerfully. "I will say this, though. If he didn't make a move on a good looking man back in Camelot, he'll probably take the opportunity to do so just for the hell of it if he's woken up to find himself alive and well in Nineteen Ninety-Five."

"I don't mean to cast aspersions on your character, _broðor_, but I find it hard to believe that you, a warrior-king of the early Five Hundreds, would notice these tendencies in a knight and simply look the other way," Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. "He, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, and Leon were the first of my knights of the Round Table. He had been banished from Camelot by our father, and he returned to help me retake it from you despite the threat of execution hanging over his head if he returned, had Uther been in his right mind and feeling like enough of a bastard to enact the sentence after being saved by him. Even though he could have left when it was over, he stayed despite his wandering nature. He was easily one of my finest nights, and despite what Ginny may say about me having a good heart, I can say without reservation that at times Gwaine's seemed twice the size of mine. I had to think about the good of the kingdom as a whole first and foremost. Gwaine just wanted to get out there and spend a day saving people before finishing it up with an ale or three at the tavern. He was a good man, _sweostor_. The teasing is only in good fun. Whoever he finds happiness with in this lifetime is a lucky person, and I only wish him the best. Hell, he and…and _Percival_ could end up together, and I'd be happy for them both."

Hermione came up on Ginny's other side so she could look at Harry. "You really did grow up, didn't you," she said wistfully. "I wish – well, there's no use wishing you could have made different choices in a different life when you're already on your second one. But you became a fine man, and a great king."

"A great king? Absolutely," Ginny said. "A fine man? Most of the time. He still had his moments, though…."

"Let's just hope my Harry Potter side will help keep that in check," Harry said, and he mock-scowled down at a laughing Ginny. "No need to list any specific instances. Your impression of me on my unofficial birthday was more than enough."

"Of course," she agreed demurely, then she turned to Hermione and said, "Ask me later, when he's not around to get all grumpy over it."

Behind them, Snape chuckled as Ron asked Harry, "Are you sure you want to make a second go of it with her? She's going to keep you on your toes, mate."

"She did last time, too," Harry reminded him, "And I enjoyed every minute of it."

"You are a glutton for punishment," Ron said.

Harry led them down a quick turn in the street where it made a jog before turning into a new one. "No, just a very lucky man."

"Ah, you flatterer," Ginny said, laying her head against his shoulder and tightening her hold on the crook of his elbow. "You're shameless."

"And yet, that doesn't make any of it untrue."

"Mm."

The five of them walked for a while in companionable silence, following the tugging of the crystal and choosing the most likely-looking roads. They passed by quaint looking shops and restaurants, dozens of oblivious muggles – both locals out running errands and tourists on holiday – and plenty of wizards and witches who almost, but didn't quite, fit in with the crowd of muggles they were attempting to pass themselves off as. Their clothes were just a little too eccentric, their faces too eager, and every so often one of them would inevitably mention the 'prophecy' loud enough for Harry to hear. Luckily, their disguises were holding up, and no one was giving them a second glance, not even Harry with his broadsword hanging off his hip.

He was beginning to believe that their mission to find Merlin would pass without incident when, naturally, Sod's Law proved him wrong in the form of a blond family of three walking a few meters ahead of them and speaking in low-voiced Brythonic.

It was second nature to raise his hand to signal to his companions to follow silently, and he didn't wait to see that everyone had nodded in agreement before he started to creep closer on silent feet, ears pricked up and listening carefully.

"You're certain that he's here?" Lucius Malfoy asked his son.

"Yes, I'm positive," Malfoy the younger said. "That was a favorite insult of his. I remember it well from my time in service to Camelot. And if I figured it out, then the king most certainly did so. If we're really lucky, we'll find them both."

"That would indeed be fortunate," Narcissa Malfoy said. "Your father and I can renew our acquaintance with Emrys and, if we are lucky, as you say, pledge our fealty to the Once and Future King's cause. It is not a matter of chance that the prophecy activated when the Dark Lord rose again. If he is the darkness threatening the Isles…."

"Dear heart, I can only apologize so many times for the choices I made in this lifetime before I start repeating myself and boring the both of us," Mr. Malfoy said, sounding almost gentle. "Who knows why magic chose us as the reincarnations of our past selves?"

"The Old Religion is deep and unfathomable," Mrs. Malfoy agreed. "Whyever it did, I'm sure there is a good reason for its decision."

"Perhaps it's so Father can attempt to destabilize the Dark Lord's organization from within," Malfoy suggested. "Although if we're asking why magic chose us to be the present incarnations of our past selves, I have to ask, why, by the Triple Goddess, would it choose to place _me_ with _you_?"

"Either magic has a sense of humor, or it wanted to give you lots of practice before you set eyes on either Emrys or the king," Mr. Malfoy said dryly. "How is that 'don't kill me' speech of yours coming along?"

"Your concern for my wellbeing is touching," Malfoy said. "And it sounds the same as it did the last time I tried it out."

"Best to be prepared," Mrs. Malfoy said. "Why don't you run through it one more time?"

Malfoy sighed heavily. "Fine. Emrys, Your Majesty, I'm sorry, blah blah blah, I'm a horrible druid and I should have believed in the prophecy, blah blah blah, I dishonored my knighthood and abandoned my friends, blah blah blah, I'm really sorry I killed you, sire, please don't kill me again."

"Leave out the 'blahs' and put some life into your delivery and I think you may have a chance," Mr. Malfoy said.

"He's going to kill me," Malfoy said, clutching fistfuls of neatly groomed blond hair and groaning.

Snape seemed almost able to read Harry's mind as he whispered a quick Notice-Me-Not spell that encompassed both of their groups just as Harry said, "I don't know about Merlin, but I'm pretty sure the king just wants to punch you in the face."

The Malfoys whirled around to face them, and they paled as first all three of them looked at Hermione, and then father and son spied Snape in the back of the group and Mr. Malfoy turned a chalky white.

"Morgana," Malfoy choked out. He twitched, leaning forward as if he wanted to come closer, but he held himself back.

Mr. Malfoy looked like he was ready to fall to his knees and do some forgiveness-begging of his own. "Gaius."

Snape took a step forward and grasped Harry's shoulder in what most assuredly appeared to be an outward sign of strength and solidarity. However, Harry could feel the tremors going through his teacher's body where his hand met Harry's shoulder. "Alator," he said flatly.

Hermione threw her hands in the air with a wordless cry of annoyance. "'Nobody will look at you and see Morgana Pendragon,' you said," she snapped, pointing to Harry before turning on Snape. "And _you_, you said that looking like your old self was a fine disguise, and nobody but Camelot's knights were likely to recognize you! Neither of you should ever be allowed to make predictions ever again."

"To be fair, Mordred was one of my knights," Harry said, and the Malfoys did a double take as they looked him over and finally realized who it was who'd spoken first.

"That's beside the point!" Hermione retorted.

"Wait. Harry Potter is King Arthur?" Malfoy asked, and he turned the same chalky white as his father. "Magic hates me."

"Oh, _gástgewinn_," Mr. Malfoy swore under his breath.

"I already killed you once; doing it twice would make it seem like I was holding onto a grudge," Harry said. "I still want to punch you, though. Mr. Malfoy? Do you have any strong objections to me hitting your son, just the once?"

"He _is_ my son, Pot – er, Your Majesty," Mr. Malfoy said cautiously. "His safety is of great importance to me."

"Alright, do you have any objections to me hauling off and hitting one of my knights, who I took under my wing and thought of as a friend before he joined forces with my more than half-crazy half-sister and impaled me with a sword that led to my slow and painful death a few days later?" Harry asked. At that, Mr. Malfoy slowly, almost reluctantly, shook his head.

"What happened to you growing up and maturing?" Hermione demanded.

"I'm taking a short break," Harry said, and took a step closer to Malfoy, who flinched at the movement. "Relax," he said soothingly. "It'll be over in less than a minute."

Malfoy turned wary, bewildered eyes on him. "_Relax_?"

Quick as a flash, Harry drew his sword arm back and let his fist fly. It connected with Malfoy's nose with a satisfying _crack_, and Malfoy stumbled back, hands clamped over his nose and eyes watering.

"See? It's over already," Harry said. "By the way, that's for killing me, you enormous git."

"I'b sorry!" Malfoy cried out. "I ab, druly." He gingerly prodded his nose with a fingertip and winced. "By the Dribble Goddess, Bodder, I ding'k you broke by dose." As if to emphasize this, a little trickle of blood flowed down his face as he spoke.

"Break's over," Harry announced. "Let Pr-Gaius take a look and heal you."

Malfoy obediently walked around their group to stand before Snape, who pulled Malfoy's bloody hands away from his face. Harry noted with approval that Malfoy barely made a whimper of pain when Snape set his nose back in place with one hand and cast a muttered "_episkey_" with his wand in the other. Another wave of his wand, and all the blood vanished. All that remained was a bit of redness and swelling to show for Harry's quick and easy payback.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked him once Snape was finished.

Malfoy let out an inelegant snort of disbelief. "Am I alright? Considering I thought you were going to kill me, I'm excellent. But I'm –"

"Lost?" Ron suggested.

"Confused?" Snape chipped in.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "It just seems almost too easy. It's over and done with, just like that?" His gaze darted from face to face suspiciously.

"We still have things to talk about, but yes, just like that," Harry said. "It's – well, I found a way of dealing with this whole reincarnation business a while back that actually works rather well. If I like someone in this lifetime that I didn't like in that lifetime, I focus on my feelings from this one. If I didn't like them this time around but I liked them back in my last life, I let our old relationship take the lead, emotionally speaking. It makes things much easier."

"So that's how you've been so calm about it all," Ron said. "Makes sense." He looked at Snape and Malfoy thoughtfully.

"Yes, I do expect you to give it a try," Harry said, and Ron's lips quirked as if he'd been anticipating that thinly veiled order.

"Like I said, to the gates of hell," Ron said. Harry looked at him with pride, and he straightened to his full height, smiling back at his king wryly. He reached out and, ignoring Malfoy's flinch, offered him his hand. "In that case, well met, Mordred. It's been about a millennium and a half, and I don't look at all like I used to, but we were friends once. Elyan."

Ever so slowly, Malfoy extended his hand as well and grasped Ron's forearm, greeting him properly like the knight he once was. "Weasley," he stated, looking at his face closely. "The hair color and the lack of freckles are a decent disguise, but your nose is a dead giveaway."

"Try 'Ron'," Ron said. "I guarantee you'll start liking me faster."

Malfoy beetled his brow but went along with Ron's advice without complaint. "Fair enough. I suppose you can call me Draco, then. Well met, Ron. Which means…." He crossed within Harry's reach carefully and, with a tense, guarded glance up at Harry, took Ginny's free hand and bowed over it. "Ginny Weasley. My lady."

"You have a lot to make up for," Ginny said severely, but her eyes were smiling as she took her hand back only to use it to finger-comb Malfoy's – no, Draco's hair back into some semblance of order. "You absolutely devastated Arthur when you left."

Draco cut his eyes to Harry, looking even more lost and bewildered as he stood stock-still and put up with Ginny's fussing at his hair. "I did?"

"Did you think I was going to throw a feast in celebration of your abrupt departure?" Harry asked. "My God, and Merlin calls _me_ a prat. No, idiot. You were my friend. The most promising of my new knights. I thought highly of you. I always told Gwen that once you had more experience under your belt, you'd make an excellent addition to the Round Table."

"I _thought_ we were friends," Draco said cautiously. "But then you executed Kara. I loved her. You didn't have to do that, Pot – Harr – Your Maj – Arth –" He stopped and rumpled his hair in frustration, undoing all of Ginny's work with one motion.

"Just call me what feels right to you," Harry said, then, realizing exactly who he was talking to, added swiftly, "So long as it's not 'Potter' or an insult."

"Harry," Draco said, testing it out. "You didn't have to kill her. I could have made her leave and never come back."

It struck Harry suddenly that when Mordred had died, he hadn't been more than four years older than Draco. "That's a nice thought, really," Harry said, "But put away the lovelorn teenage brain for a moment and turn on the Malfoy political brain. I have a hypothetical scenario for you. Ready?"

Draco nodded.

"You're the king of a realm that's been faced with the threat of Saxon invaders for a few years. They've steadily grown bolder, to the point that a routine patrol through your lands might invite an attack from Saxon bandits. And when you, the king, go back the day after to check for injured or stragglers, you come across a harmless looking girl who promises she's no danger to anyone – but once you're within stabbing distance, she attempts to kill you. Are you with me so far?"

Again Draco nodded.

"You don't want to execute this girl. You dislike executions as a whole. However, you're the king, and not only was she a part of a Saxon raiding party, she personally attempted to kill you. You offer her ways out from this – a confession of guilt in exchange for banishment, even though you know that she's going to run straight into the arms of your kingdom's enemy. She remains defiant, claiming she did nothing wrong, and would do it again if given the opportunity. She would try to kill you again if she had the chance. You are the ruler of an entire kingdom, Draco, and its safety and security must come first, above any personal feelings you or any of your knights may have. What do you do?"

Draco's mouth opened and shut, but no noise came out, and he looked at Harry with wet, anguished eyes. "Oh," he said in a small voice. From the shock on his face, Harry guessed this was likely the first time he'd ever tried to see those few miserable days from someone else's perspective.

"'Oh' is right," Harry said, but very kindly, and when he pulled his sniffling knight into a half-hug he was met with no resistance. "I am sorry that I had to make that decision about someone you loved," he said. "I truly am. But I must ask. Are you still my knight?"

Draco's answer, mumbled into Harry's shoulder, was unintelligible, but his nod was understood easily enough.

"And my friend? May I still call you that?"

This question saw Draco pull away and take a step back. "Why would you even want to?" he asked shakily, wiping his eyes roughly.

"Because young people in love are selfish, rash, and stupid," Harry said, and dodged Ginny's pointy fingers as she jabbed them at his side. "Christ! Keep those to yourself, love! But the young man I knighted, the one I called a friend, was courteous, friendly, thoughtful, and intelligent. So, are we really going to have the coroner's inquest on our friendship read 'cause of death: adolescent stupidity'?"

He was smugly pleased with himself that his words startled a laugh out of Draco. "Yes, alright," Draco said. He wiped his face a final time and offered up a weak smile. "If that's the alternative, then I guess I really have no choice. Friends." He proffered his hand, and Harry reached out and gripped his forearm. It felt –

It felt like they had just healed something for which there was no cure. Like that chapter of their lives, although long since ended, was finally _over_ in a way that it hadn't yet been. There was a distinct sensation of magic in the air surrounding him and Draco, and as it washed over them, Harry said, "You know, I think fate's done using the two of us as play toys."

"I think you're right," Draco agreed. The magic faded away as they let go, and he cast a sidelong glance at Hermione. "What about you and Morgana? Is fate done playing with the two of you?"

"She's Hermione," Harry said, as if that said it all. Judging by Draco's crooked smile, it clearly did. "There was no way we weren't going to sort through it all and forgive each other for everything."

"To make a very long and ugly story short, in order to stop a band of undead knights and save Camelot, Arthur, his knights, and, well, everyone, basically, Merlin had to kill the living being to which the spell animating the knights was anchored," Hermione said. "I was that anchor. Morgause brought me back to life, but I came back, ah, incomplete – lacking in things like empathy, and definitely missing more than a passing acquaintance with sanity. And those two years chained in the bottom of an oubliette…with my poor Aithusa…they didn't help the situation all." She turned to address the elder Malfoys, who had been silently watching their reconciliation with Draco, and she knotted her fingers together nervously, squeezing and twisting until her knuckles were white and bloodless.

"In our last life, I gave you more than enough reasons to hate me – both of you, if you are who I think you are, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione said. "And in this life, Mr. Malfoy, the things you've done to muggles like my parents, what you did to me and my schoolmates and especially to Ginny with that diary, all that you've done in service to Voldemort…. In this life, Mr. Malfoy, I never truly hated anyone, or feared them, with such stomach-churning intensity before you. Perhaps you were…you were my _me_."

Mr. Malfoy studied her with a level gaze in the silence that followed. After it became nearly unbearable, and Harry was about to say something, anything, just to break the silence, Mr. Malfoy spoke. "Perhaps. But then, I don't recall you ever endangering children, Miss Granger, even unknowingly. We have both been the torturers, though I will say that there is little doubt in my mind that you've done quite a bit less than I have in either life, and we have both been the tortured, but again, facing the Dark Lord's Cruciatus curse when he's displeased seems the far more pleasant option when compared to two years in an oubliette. And in your own, violent, admittedly less than sane way, you wished to see the Old Religion returned to Camelot as well."

"Yes, because nothing says 'I'm ushering in a new era of peace and stability' like a violent coup," Hermione joked timidly.

The small, polite smile that Mr. Malfoy gave her in response actually reached his eyes. "Indeed."

From behind Harry came the sound of a throat clearing, and Snape's hand, followed by his bony wrist and muggle wristwatch, were shoved into his line of sight.

"Er, right," Harry muttered, and then said louder, addressing the Malfoys, "I'm not saying that everything is sunshine and rainbows and we're all the best of friends now – you and I definitely need to have a serious chat, Mr. Malfoy, and I'm sure you know that goes for you and Ginny as well – but perhaps we could work out our issues while we walk? We're on a bit of a deadline. We have people back at – back at my reincarnated mum's place, who are giving Mrs. Weasley the run-around while we're out here looking for Merlin. So if we don't want an in-person Howler when we get back, we really need to get moving. Coming?"

"You know where Emrys is?" Mrs. Malfoy asked.

In response, Harry let the little crystal dangle from his fingers. All eyes were on it as it still pulled stubbornly toward the northeast. "Behold, my mighty and all-powerful Merlin detecter."

"'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair'?" Hermione quoted.

Harry gave her a dirty look, which she replied to with a wink. "Do I strike you as being anything like Ozymandias?"

"You did have a rather high opinion of yourself when you were younger," she said as they began to walk, their group absorbing the Malfoys. "Though I am surprised you know the poem."

"As a prince, _sweostor_. Trust me, by the time Uther died and I was crowned king, my high opinion of myself had been whittled down to merely a healthy measure of self-respect."

"Though he did have his moments," Ginny murmured to Hermione, and they both muffled snickers.

"I heard that," Harry said. "And I read, Hermione. Just because I don't consider a musty old thousand-paged book 'light reading' doesn't mean I don't enjoy a few good books or a volume of poetry or two to pass the time in the summer."

"Dudley chucks his schoolbooks in your room when he gets home, doesn't he?" Ron asked.

"Yes he does," Harry said. "And thank magic for that, or I'd have died of boredom a few summers ago."

"Or starvation," Ron muttered.

"Over and dealt with," Harry said firmly. "I'm not saying it's forgotten, but let's leave that in the past where it belongs."

"Yes, speaking of the past," Mrs. Malfoy said. They all waited expectantly, but nothing further came from her.

Mr. Malfoy sighed. "Yes, thank you, Narcissa. Miss Weasley, I deeply apologize for the pain I put you and your loved ones through by giving you that diary."

Ginny looked thoughtful, and it was with the same thoughtful air that she answered. "Did you know what it would do?" Beside her, Hermione whispered a spell into the palm of her hand.

"No." Mr. Malfoy was behind them, but Harry would swear he sounded almost embarrassed. "I knew it was a very dark artifact, and I'd hoped that its discovery on your person at Hogwarts would lead to your father being fired from his job at the Ministry."

"You had no idea that you were loosing a teenage psychopath with a pet basilisk on the school?"

"I hold my son's safety as paramount," Mr. Malfoy said. "If that had been my intention, I would have pulled him from Hogwarts and transferred him to Durmstrang…and advised the parents of his friends to do likewise."

"Knowing what you do now, if you were still one hundred percent Lucius Malfoy, not the reincarnation of this 'Alator', would you do it again if you found yourself back in Flourish and Blotts on that day?"

"No," Mr. Malfoy said, quiet but vehement. "A thousand times, no."

"He's being honest," Hermione said, and held out her cupped hand to reveal a small bright light the size of a shooter marble. "It stayed white." She closed her fist tightly around the light, then opened it to show an empty palm.

"Pr-Gaius?" Ginny asked. "Your opinion?"

"On the one hand, Alator tortured me under Morgana's orders until I gave him the name and location of the elusive 'Emrys'," Snape said. "On the other, once he had it, he freed me and swore to protect the secret with his life."

"Did he keep his vow?" Ginny asked.

"He did," Gaius said. "Lucius Malfoy is a sly and dangerous man, but Alator of the Catha is most certainly a man of his word."

"Alright, then, Mr. Malfoy. Indulge me a few more questions. How would you differentiate Alator of the Catha from Lucius Malfoy?" Ginny asked.

Mr. Malfoy's answer was slow in coming, and he chose his words carefully. "As Alator, I wished to see those with magic free to practice it without fear of persecution from those without it. As Lucius, I…I grew up like many purebloods in old, dark families do, convinced of our inherent superiority. When I was a young man, I was…seduced…by the charisma of the Dark Lord and the promises of power over muggles and the muggleborn. Power that we would take by a show of violence and force. It was a heady and addictive vision of the future for a young pureblood not long out of Hogwarts, especially one with a fondness for the Dark Arts."

"And which view do you subscribe to now?" Ginny asked.

"Let's just say that my Alator side is strong enough to leave the half of me that's Lucius deeply ashamed of my so-called exploits," Mr. Malfoy said gravely.

Ginny looked up at Harry. "I'm satisfied."

Harry tipped his head in acknowledgment. "I trust my queen's judgment, Mr. Malfoy," he said, "And not only has Gaius vouched for your past self, but Hermione has confirmed your honesty through magic. Very well. We shall treat with you as we would any other ally. However, my method of working through troubling issues isn't nearly as calm and level-headed as Ginny's, and you don't strike me as a shouting-till-you're-red-in-the-face, blowout-argument type of person. So I propose that we exchange letters over the remainder of the summer and work through our, er, past disagreements the way that Hermione and I did regarding our past lives."

"Thank you," Mr. Malfoy said, and after a moment's hesitation added quietly, "Your Majesty. I'm amenable to your suggestion. However, I would amend the idea to that of you exchanging letters with Draco as a cover. A fifteen year old receiving letters from a school friend is far less likely to attract the Dark Lord's attention than one of his top lieutenants suddenly taking up frequent and secretive correspondence with an unknown witch or wizard."

"Good idea," Hermione said. "It's less likely to get you killed, too."

"Yes, there is that," Mr. Malfoy said. Harry didn't think he was imagining the dark humor in his voice.

"Then that's what we'll do," Harry said. He glanced over his shoulder at Draco's mother and said, "I don't mean to be ignoring you in the slightest, Mrs. Malfoy. We've just never had any real trouble with one another. If you don't mind my asking, who –"

"Who am I?" she finished for him. "Finna, Harry. I hope you don't mind me addressing you so casually."

"By all means, address away," Harry said with a wave of his hand. "So, Finna?"

"Yes," she said. "Finna, druid and high priestess of the Old Religion."

"Now I understand your complaint," Hermione said, shooting Draco a smile. "Poor Mordred, surrounded by two of Merlin's biggest fans all summer."

"It was unbearable," Draco moaned, and with hesitant looks at both his parents and Hermione, took a long stride to join Hermione near the front of the group, walking by her side.

Again he looked torn between reaching out to her and holding himself back. Harry raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who smiled ruefully and slipped an arm around Draco's waist. "I really don't care who you came back as. I missed you dearly, my friend."

Draco gingerly laid his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and when no one so much as glared at him, all the tension seemed to flow out of him and he settled his arm more firmly about her. "I'm sorry about the mudblood mess," he mumbled. "And that hex that hit you and made your teeth grow. And talking to Skeeter about you. And –"

"Hush," Hermione commanded, laying her head against Draco's wiry shoulder. "Let's not ruin the reunion by rehashing your idiotic schoolboy antics."

"As you wish," he said agreeably.

"Life couldn't possibly get any stranger," Ginny said, her voice pitched so that only Harry would hear her.

"Never say that," Harry said, equally quiet. "That's usually what you hear right before 'strange' becomes 'mind-bogglingly insane'." They both laughed under their breath, knowing that his words were more than likely correct.

They made the rest of the trek in relative quiet, Harry ignoring the soft conversations taking place around him in favor of concentrating on the crystal in his right hand and Ginny on his left arm. His 'Merlin detector' led them up streets heading north, and every so often they cut across to the east to walk up another northbound street. The shops and inns and pubs slowly disappeared, making way for houses. The crowds thinned out and then vanished altogether. Then, finally, they reached Ferryman Road, and the crystal swung sharply east.

"Down this way," Harry said, leading the way as they all scrutinized the houses for some sign that one of them might belong to Merlin. They were midway down the street when the crystal swung once again, a hard right directly in front of a house with overgrown hedges obscuring their view. It practically quivered in his hand. Harry grinned.

"Glamours off, everyone. We're here."

Snape obliged with quick and silent wandwork. He must have taken off his disguise as well, as he heard a gasp from Mrs. Malfoy and a stunned "Severus?" from Mr. Malfoy, but he didn't give them any time to really react to the revelation, as he was striding through the open gate and up to the front door, crystal clutched in his hand and everyone following at his heels.

Harry reached out with his free hand and touched the door knocker shaped like the Pendragon crest. "Definitely the right house," he said, and rapped it sharply against the door.

From within, someone called out a muffled "I'm coming, I'm coming," as footsteps pounded in their direction. After an agonizingly long moment, the footsteps came to a stop on the other side of the door, and the owner of the voice pulled it open wide.

Merlin, gawky, lanky, big-eared Merlin, stood right inside the house, looking – almost unbelievably – younger than he had when Harry had seen him last. He stared at the unlikely group on his doorstep and said, "The Boy-Who-Lived, his friends, the Malfoy family, and a Hogwarts professor knock on a door. Sounds like the set-up to a bad joke."

"It really does, doesn't it?" Harry said. He was still grinning broadly. He knew, he just knew, that if he stopped smiling and thought about when he last saw Merlin, he'd turn into a weepy mess.

"If you're collecting for Hogwarts or something, I make a yearly donation to the scholarship fund," Merlin said, "So there's no point in asking me for more. And, uhm, I'm a bit busy at the moment, so if you don't mind…."

"What," Harry said, "Were you expecting some other clotpole to come rescue you from boredom and New Age religion?"

Merlin started. "No," he breathed, eyes widening at he looked Harry up and down. "_Arthur_?"

Harry let go of the leather thong tied to the crystal and watched his 'Merlin detector' fly across the space between them to stick to Merlin's chest. "Found you," he said, his grin growing even bigger.

The only answer he received was Merlin tugging him across the threshold and enveloping him in a fierce hug. "Oh, _Arthur_," Merlin said, half laughing and half sobbing.

As Harry returned his oldest friend's hug with equal ferocity, he realized that he was wrong. He didn't have to stop smiling to turn into a weepy mess.

* * *

_I'm just going to come out and say it: if you dislike stories that have some diversity when it comes to the sexual orientations of the characters, even if they're just secondary or tertiary characters, then this fic is probably not going to be to your taste. If you feel the need to know ahead of time exactly who's ending up with whom and to what degree their relationship will be portrayed in the story, or you just have a burning need to know if a specific character is straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, or even asexual, drop me a line via PM or review and I'll fill you in (without spoiling the story, even!)._

_Reviews are love!_


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